Steve-o: the "o" stands for "officially cursed"

When will it end???

The Worst Sports Weekend of All-Time extended its swath of destruction into the week itself, as the Minnesota Timberwolves–14-7 record, bona fide contenders, league MVP–strolled into the Air Canada Centre and got schooled by the Toronto Raptors. The final score was 96-90 Toronto, but that doesn’t tell the whole story. Minnesota was just awful last night; at one point I’m pretty sure they went nine full minutes without hitting a field goal, while aforementioned MVP Kevin Garnett was a step out of sync all night. In the fourth quarter, Toronto’s future poster boy (if only ’cause he’s white and has red hair) Matt Bonner nailed Garnett with a flagrant foul, which set off a major skirmish involving Bonner, Garnett, the ponytailed Latrell Sprewell and Raptors coach Sam Mitchell; a crowd of 16,888 chanting Bonner’s name; MoPete inticing the crowd to get louder; Bonner getting ejected, high fiving everybody in sight as he made his way off the court and into a multi-game suspension. It was a surreal moment–the perfect complement to an all-around surreal night in which the Raptors made the T-Wolves look pedestrian, Chris Bosh schooled Garnett not once but twice and Donyell Marhsall nailed at least two clutch three’s. Just your typical game for a team I cheer for. Oh, and I was there, of course–trust me to have to witness this kind of mess in person.

My buddy Adam has a theory about this recent skid of mine, which I didn’t give much credence until last night. It goes something like this. As most of you know, I’ve recently gotten myself involved in a supernova relationship with a girl named Brianna; we met this past summer while working at Walkhome, bonded over our mutual good taste in music and fell hard for one another via several deep, intense, life-altering conversations (several of which have lasted for four hours or more). And I’m happier than I could ever imagine being…which leads me straight into Adam’s theory: I’m so happy, he argues, that I’ve doomed myself to a lifetime’s worth of misery where my favourite teams are concerned. Indeed, in the past two weeks since mine and Bri’s legendary night out at Hairspray, the Vikings are 1-2 (and both of those loses were embarassing), Southampton have been their usual putrid selves, United blew a late 1-0 lead to freaking Fulham, the Blue Jays parted ways to arguably their greatest ever player, the Timberwolves have lost to both the Raptors and the Chicago Bulls and my fantasy football team was eliminated from the playoffs when its #1 receiver injured himself returning a punt. All in the space of two weeks.

Do I mind? Not at all. Would I trade my current euphoric state for a couple Vikings wins? No, I would not. But see, Adam is insisting that if I broke up with Bri right this second I’d be guaranteeing myself lots of untold sporting pleasures–chief among them a Viking Super Bowl berth. Thus, the trade-off is simple: sports vs. the girl, which is an ironic proposition given that Bri is a bigger, more genuine sports fan than 95% of guys I know. Would I pull the trigger on this deal? Don’t think so, no. But would it kill the Vikings to at least win against Detroit this weekend?


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