Musings of an Entitled NBA Player
An original sports poem.
March is synonymous with basketball.
I love March Madness. Few things in the sports world compare to the excitement of the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament. Underdog teams emerge from nowhere to rack up upset victories while shredding brackets in their wake. Thrilling finishes and buzzer beaters are a staple of the 68-team event.
It truly becomes must-see-TV every March.
One major highlight in my sports journalism career has been covering March Madness on multiple occasions. Sitting courtside at first and second-round games fulfilled a career bucket list item.
I don’t possess the same love for the NBA. Pro basketball is dominated by greedy billionaire owners, egotistical coaches, and selfish, entitled athletes. Covering the pros, and dealing with numerous larger-than-life egos, becomes more chore than fun as the season progresses.
Naturally, these latent feelings about the NBA inspired a new poem I wanted to share with readers of this newsletter.
Legions of fans are booing. Let all those losers boo until their voices grow hoarse. Let them curse my name. I don't give a damn. My contract expires at season's end. I'll test the free agent market. I despise this backwater city. I can't stand my coach My teammates can kiss my ass. Doesn't anyone understand how much of a superstar I am? I've carried this entire team on my shoulders through 82 games. Why am I now riding the bench? Coach says I take tons of bad shots. Advanced metrics be damned. Shooters got to shoot their shot. He complains about my defense, saying I can't stick with my man. Defense doesn't lead off Sportscenter. I'll expose them all as fools. My next team will reward my talents. It's all about the Benjamins. Who cares about winning? Big stats equal big-time money. Big-time money brings the good life. Embrace my hype or get out of my way.
