It's time for the Love in the Time of LeBron 2010 Season Team Previews. You know how we do. Next up, everyone's favorite Canadian emigres, the Memphis Grizzlies.
Classification
Surprisingly Awesome Despite Starting Mike Conley
Why We Care
This is one of the few secret surprises left in the NBA now that all the other secretly fun teams in the NBA have been thoroughly exposed to the adoring public. So enjoy them now so you can be totally over it by the time they get their own Sports Illustrated cover. All kidding aside, Rudy Gay may be paid more than you think is prudent but dude can play and can definitely dunk. O.J Mayo is a scintillating scorer and somehow Zach Randolph and Marc Gasol have morphed into one of the most formidable back courts in the NBA. The Grizzlies are pretty awesome, but as a non-contending small market team without very much star power, they are second-class NBA citizens at best, and woefully under-exposed. The Grizzlies might not be the next big thing, but watching them play and appreciating their game is what being an obsessive NBA fan is all about.
Significant Beards
Tony Allen: Underchin goatee. Mole-like. Possibly malignant.
Darrell Arthur: Chin eyebrow. Buy two, get one free?
DeMarre Carroll: Like hair laugh lines. It works.
Mike Conley: The whole dull package: mustache, soul patch, and goatee. Yawn.
Marc Gasol: A truly grizzly beard. Points for team spirit. Major deductions for creepiness.
Hamed Haddadi: Somewhat Satanic soul patch. Fiery.
Acie Law: Shaped like a nearly-empty glass of water. Why?
O.J. Mayo: Too patchy. Offensive to actual grizzlies.
Zach Randolph: Itty-bitty ‘tee. Somehow, it actually works. Miracles happen.
Hasheem Thabeet: Underchin only. Some beards are just shy.
Sam Young: Weighty, ambitious. One day it will rule his face. Or maybe the world?
Guiding Text
The Winter’s Tale
If They Were A Marsupial They Would Be...
A wallaby.
LeBron on the Grizzlies
No matter how tight the blinds were drawn, the light slipped through the cracks. It spilled onto the ceiling onto the floor. The peephole on the door glowed. The small cracks around the door inadvertently limned it in radiance. The air conditioner hummed. No, it didn’t. It rattled. It growled. It blew out chilled, stale air in the summer and scorched, stale air in the winter. The lights in the room, when on, let out that tell-tale hum of fluorescent bulbs which glowed bright and cold. They gave the room a pale green hue that was apparent even on the dark, patterned carpet and wall-paper. He had turned those lights off almost immediately. The light spilling on on the floor and ceiling flickered whenever someone walked by the windows though you could seldom here their footsteps. Through the walls, you could hear someone watching television. There was lots of cheering and men’s voices, self-assured and baritone. A game? Maybe. Maybe wrestling.
The two double beds sat undisturbed, and the television remained off in this room. Nothing was turned on, but there was still plenty of illumination: the glowing thermostat panel, the flashing light on the old-fashioned hotel phone, a little red light on the adaptor for the hair-drying station affixed to the wall, and of course that sneaking, spilling light from the bright parking lot lights. Could you ever really escape light? Over the hum and the room next door he could hear, on occasion, footsteps from the room above. Slow footsteps. Slow and rare. A rush of water when they flushed the toilet. He couldn’t hear anyone through the walls on the other side of the room. There was a knock on the door and he held his breath.
Rosetta Stone
This pretty much explains it.
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