Tuesday, June 9, 2009

The Saga Of Jonathan Clay Reddick


The ball found it's way to the bottom of the net as The 7 Foot Spaniard stood there in all his odorous shock. Somewhere, Steve Kerr, Mark Price, Tim Legler, Jeff Hornacek and Jason Kapono smiled. Perhaps there was a place in the NBA for the rebel, a place in their tight-knit brotherhood. With 2:22 minutes remaining in Game 2 of the NBA Finals, Jonathan Clay Reddick's three pointer tied the game and helped the Orlando Magic force overtime against the Lakers.

This was the cocky sharpshooters' break out moment, his time in the spotlight. He felt inside his heart of hearts that he had jostled the coveted starting spot in the Magic's backcourt away from Rip "Courtney Lee" Hamilton. It was fate.

But fate my friends, is a wicked bitch. Less than five minutes later, with a little over two minutes left in overtime, Jonathan Clay would brick a wide open three pointer. Moments after that, he would embarrass himself and turn the ball over by throwing a pass into the hands of Derek Fisher. With that, it was over. He glanced over at the opposing teams bench and saw his equal, his brother, his soulmate.

Adam Morrison was smiling. He knew that there would be no phone calls from Kerr, Price, Legler, Hornacek or Kapono. Jonathan Clay would hit the showers. Adam Morrison wouldn't need to because he didn't even break a sweat - you need to play to sweat. After the game, they'd go have a beer, of course Adam Morrison would not let Jonathan Clay drive afterward, because we all know Jonathan Clay and driving intoxicated is something that doesn't mix.

They'd talk about days passed, about that magical 2006 season.Their story was of a rivalry - a rivalry of two overrated white guys who couldn't guard a chair. This rivalry carries with it about an 80% chance of ending in one of them crying. Gone is the long haired diabetic wonder with the 14 year old's mustache who dominated the likes of Santa Clara and Loyola Marymount. Gone is the dead-eye shooter with the perfectly cropped hair who indulges in three pointers, poerty about the lord, and the art of drinking and driving. All that is left behind is the memory of greatness and the feel of the back end of an NBA bench.

At least you've gotten used to it John Clay Reddick, you've earned it.


Epilogue: You knew it was coming, because it's still so darn funny.

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