The Never-Ending Game

I've been hearing over and over from my mom how much she hates the NBA (the National Brassfoundry Association to the layperson). She doesn't like the squeaky shoes, the players are crybabies and do bad things, the games go on forever, etc. etc. etc. I agree wholeheartedly with her, I just enjoy those things a bit more. The squeaky shoes are ubiquitous, no need to go there. I have a quick clip for the crybaby part before we get into the meat of this post. So here you go, a clip from last night's Heat-Pacers game.

So yeah. Basketball has really gone downhill since Keanu Reeves and Hayden Christensen started playing (burn).

In this same game, the games going on forever thing kind of got to me too. I am now going to regale you with a play-by-play account of the last 1:20 of the game juxtaposed with what was happening in the real world at the time. The following is absolutely, 100% [partially] true.

1:20, IND 94, MIA 89
LeBron James dribbles for a few seconds, launches a rainbow three pointer that touches the rafters and hits nothing but the bottom of the net. Meanwhile...

13,798,000,000 BC
The universe is but a densely packed bit of matter no bigger than the head of a pin. The resounding cheer from the Miami Heat bandwagon causes a giant explosion creating everything that ever was.

1:00, IND 94, MIA 92
Lance Stephenson takes the ball, elbows a few Heat players, and lofts a floater that hits the rim, the backboard, the rim a couple more times, bounces off the scoreboard, hits a popcorn man, and goes through the hoop for two. Meanwhile...

201,300,000 BC
I didn't mention before that the layup also bounced off of the supercontinent, Pangea. It promptly breaks up, forming the geography we know and love today where India and Antarctica no longer have to be neighbors.

:56, IND 96, MIA 92
LeBron James, the King, the Chosen One, the receding hairline guy, the MVP of the National Brassfoundry Association, is called for a ticky tack offensive foul, his 6th, fouling him out. He stands, heartbroken and aghast at center court. A tear wells up in his eye. He looks pleadingly at an official, his lower lip quivering. The officials give him no quarter and he must leave the court after making an impassioned speech about destiny and true love to no avail. Meanwhile...

476 AD
The Roman Empire, distraught with the notion that nobody is above the law or immortal, falls to the Germanic Tribes. The Roman emperor makes an impassioned speech about not getting deposed and something about roads or whatever. He is forced to sit on the bench with LeBron while the rest of the game is played out without him.

:36, IND 96, MIA 92
The refs review an out of bounds call for a lonnnnng time. The ball may have gone off of one guy or another, but in the long run, isn't dance the only thing that really matters? The ball goes to the Heat and Pacer David West makes a face like this:

 

 Meanwhile...

1893 AD

Edvard Munch, an avid Pacers fan, is attending the game. Seeing West's emotional pain so evident, Munch is inspired to create this:

:26, IND 96, MIA 92

Dwyane Wade catches a pass, shot fakes, dribbles, shot fakes, jumps about 20 feet backwards, shot fakes, has a traveling violation called on him, shot fakes, whines to the official, and shot fakes. Meanwhile...

1927 AD

Charles Lindbergh is inspired by how much traveling Dwyane Wade does in a day. He vows to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean, only slightly after LeBron James jumped across it in a fit of rage over the transgressions perpetrated against him earlier in the game.

:25, IND 96, MIA 92

Heat foul, Pacers make a foul shot and there's ANOTHER review. My face looks like this at this point:     :-/      Meanwhile...

1998 AD

Having seen so many reviews of the past, Congress decides to review the performance of President of the United States, Bill Clinton. While the impeachment fails, the House of Representatives manages to get the refs to call the ball out on Clinton, giving them possession of the basketball.

:21, IND 97, MIA 92

The wheels come off, Miami misses about 65 three point shots, Indiana makes a few free throws and the game FINALLY ends. Meanwhile...

2013 AD

I sit down to write this blog. 

So there you have it, the game that took about 14 billion years to finish. And the blog that took you 14 billion years to read.

Orange

Hello world. My name may still be Timothy Danger Kineke (my middle name may or may not be Danger), but I will henceforth be known as Timothy "Badass MS" Danger Kineke. That's right. I walked across the stage, shook the hand of a giant pumpkin (shown below) and left the boring world of not having mastered anything.

Walking out of my apartment in Syracuse for the last time, I pondered two things. First, how fitting is it that the last things I brought with me were a Frisbee, a Strongbow cider, and food. Three of my favorite things on my way to leaving one of my favorite places. Second, I thought of orange. I have had an affinity for the color orange for a very long time, since middle school at the very least. It helped set me apart and find an identity. When applying to schools, obviously it seemed fitting that Syracuse was on the list. In the past, the application essay was open-ended but by the time I got to applying, I had to write some nonsense about obstacles or an influential person or why I wanted my parents to set up a direct deposit into Syracuse's bank account. I would have taken the opportunity to write the best college essay of all time if they had let me.

Since they didn't, I have to thank the Internet for allowing me to get my thoughts down on paper...which they will be after you print this post out, ask me to sign it, frame it, then tell your kids how you used to read the blog of the National Frisbee League (or the "NFL" for short) commissioner/coach/all-star Timothy "Badass MS" Danger "The Puma" Kineke. So in the interest of not having you slip into a nice coma, I will convert my essay train of thought to a loose list-esque form. Here are three reasons why the color orange has impacted my life.

3. The color itself defies definition, much like myself.

Seriously. Think of a color. Any color at all. Chances are it's going to have all kinds of meanings and emotions attached to it. Black is fear and death, yellow is sunshine and happiness, red is passion and warmth, whatever whatever. Orange is...a color. Or a fruit. It's in the rainbow but it's always an afterthought. It's shades aren't really that popular and it doesn't strike an emotional chord with many people. It's like when you think of me. Am I an accountant? Nearly. Am I a freaking boss at Frisbee? Hell yes. Maestro? Probably not. Neurosurgeon? Maybe someday. But at some point or another, I've been nerd, geek, jock, overachiever, slacker, and so on. If you don't believe me, the nerd will make a pie chart of it, the geek will challenge you to a duel, the jock will shove you into a locker, the overachiever will actually follow through with this threat, and the slacker will...whatever.

2. I now have a dope wardrobe.

Walking through the outlets of Myrtle Beach, I was left with no choice but to go into Abercrombie, Ralph Lauren, and all kinds of other awful, soul-sucking stores to track down a friend. What? I was looking for my friend. Shut up. So while I was in them, I couldn't help but notice that there were tons of items of orange clothing everywhere. I have it on good authority that those stores are "cool." So orange is coming. I of course got on this train years ago with my plain orange sweatshirt, my orange shorts, orange shirts, orange everything. I thought these were cool back when fake glasses were for Halloween only and skinny jeans were because your mom messed them up in the wash. My clothes help set me apart, help me express my inner being, and compliment my beautiful blue eyes if I do say so myself.

1. It's given me a gateway to childhood that I frequently utilize.

A few examples of this spring to mind. Orange has helped keep me involved in Halloween. I was a pumpkin in high school (Seriously, pumpkin is a perfect costume for me...and babies who can't walk or talk. Like pumpkins.). I was candy corn in college. Awwww!!! So cute, I know. These instances help me avoid dressing like a slutty cat or god knows what else if I'd succumbed to society's idea of the holiday. Also, jokes like orange you glad I didn't say banana? Classic. Perfect for my sense of humor that is equal to that of a five year old. Speaking of which, that seems to be the perfect way to end this. One orange joke to rule them all.

Why did the orange go out with a banana?
It couldn't find a date!!!!

Forever orange. You will be missed, Cuse.

The Walking Drunks

I recently had the good fortune to procrastinate on packing up my room until the last possible moment. Which is today. Meaning I'm still procrastinating with a room full of boxes and a house full of furniture just itching to go back into storage. So I'll regale you with a thrilling tale of an unfortunate task I had to perform today under unfortunate circumstances.

This being the first Saturday after classes ended, many students here at the fine Syracuse University decided to take it upon themselves to release all inhibitions and go "ALL OUT BRO!" I found myself locked in my room unable to go out and enjoy the 80 degree sunshiney weather that has eluded this campus until the last possible moment. However, there seemed to be something missing. My happy-times music emanating from my iPod sitting inside a cup amplifier was getting weaker. I checked the battery, only 20% remaining. The sustenance that my body craved to break through the boredom and sadness of removing any trace of my existence from my home these past 9 months was running dangerously low. It's okay, I thought, I'll just grab my charger and plug this sucker in. I'll be fine.Then reality did the following to me:

My charger was all. The way. Across campus.

I would need to go on a supply run through some of the most heavily infested territory around. I'd watched the news before reports stopped coming in, before the broadcasts turned to static, before all hope of rescue left our hardened, survival-driven consciousness. I knew how to tell those who had turned from those who hadn't.

Note the giant sunglasses, brightly colored shirts, unnecessary sleeve removal, vacant expressions, head tilt. What we have here are the walking drunks. Get to close to them and they'll claim you and make you one of them - mindless, fist pumping, woo-ing. I had to walk through some of the highest concentrations of these former people to get to where I needed to be. 6 blocks to my charger. 6 blocks back. And no support in sight.

I started my journey by doing what I could to disguise myself. I threw on a pair of sunglasses and put on my Terminator-indifferent-to-the world glare to ward off any attacks. I put on earphones to deaden their hellish cries. I set out to gather the provisions I would need to survive the rest of the day.

I peeked out the door to survey the post-apocalyptic wasteland that was once a thriving center of academic enlightenment. All clear. I set out on foot always aware of my surroundings. I knew this would be no easy journey. The first obstacle lay at the end of the first block: a group of no less than ten drunks spilling off of a porch onto the lawn of a house, red cups in hand throwing plastic balls at each other. I quickly looked the other way and pressed onward. As I turn the first corner, I know I will be hard pressed to make it back to my apartment at all as scattered groups of the shambling inebriated are everywhere, lying on the grass, running across streets to greet each other with no mental capacity to worry about danger or harm.

Once I reach the end of the third block, my plight becomes real. In the parking lot of an apartment complex, thousands of these mindless ghouls are raging. A sound system blares, the crowd is "dancing," bros on porches stand precariously on railings yelling, someone has gotten hold of an American flag. I make a daring escape, cutting through a park covered with the slower sunbathers. As they lay on the ground, they are far less mobile than those in line for the rental moon bounce. I go through a back alley by a parking garage and can see it - the door to the school housing the locker where I stashed my possessions. All that is left is one quick sprint across the street. I emerge from the alley, fist pump a few times to blend with the crowd, and I am safe inside a place no drunk will ever follow me: an academic building. I ascend 3 flights of stairs (the elevators never work during the apocalypse) and retrieve my precious cargo.

All that separates me from finishing packing up my apartment is the same journey I just survived. Supply runs during the apocalypse always work. Right? Right?!?!

I stop for a moment to check the vending machines. There is plenty of energy-giving goodness in them, but of course if they never worked when governments were still intact and drunks weren't roaming the countryside in packs, why would they work now? I start to leave the building. As I cross back to my shortcut alley, I make a horrifying discovery: two female drunks have stumbled into my pathway to safety. I follow them in, hoping their deadened senses will leave them blind to my presence. This proves all too true as these drunks have apparently decided to use my escape route as...how to put this delicately...a water closet. I wait for them to duck behind dumpsters "out of sight," turn the other way, and walk briskly past them.

I go through the park, past the rager in the parking lot, up the hill and turn the corner for home only to be face to face with one last crowd of drunks to clear before bolting the door behind me. So I grabbed my katana and beheaded them all! Nah, just kidding. I crossed to the other side of the street and went around them.

Once I got home, I collapsed from emotional exhaustion. One can put their sobriety on the line only so many times in a day, but I lived to tell about it. And finish packing.