I’m sitting here in the Louis Armstrong Airport in New Orleans, killing a few hours before my flight.
There was one seat available here in the little coffee shop by Concourse D. I took it. Now, I need to leave.
The man sitting next to me, roughly 35 in age, with a black cap and jeans, keeps snorting. Snorting snot.
He’ll be typing … typing … typing …
Typing … typing … typing …
There are sounds I very much enjoy. Birds chirping. Waves crashing. A James Ingram solo. The echo of this man’s mucus residue, resonating through his throat, doubtlessly projecting small, microscopic snot particles my way?
Not so much.
On another note, Isiah Thomas is hurt. Magic Johnson says in a new book that he helped keep Thomas off the ’92 Dream Team; that nobody wanted him and the league hated him and, more or less, he was a twerp. â€œI wish he would have called me,â€ Thomas said. â€œI always believed that our friendship was good and close enough that we wouldnâ€™t have to talk about this stuff in such a public venue.â€
As a human being, I despise Zeke, the man who killed the CBA, killed the Pacers, killed the Knicks, clashed with the media, etc. He is, by all accounts, a pretty bad guy; one I have little interest in. But, as a writer, I’m fascinated. Generally, the jerko**s of sports tend to hide their jerko**itude by signing a few autographs; smiling for the camera; shaking hands and kissing babies. Thomas actually did all of those things, and he’s still loathed.
That, my friends, takes talent.