Brooklyn, you are on f***ing notice. I’m about to puncture your lumpy, gassy blimp of a basketball team with a sterling saber of truth.
Please do not give me “the business” about a small sample size now, Brooklyn. It’s never too early for me to put the “mean” in “regression to the mean”: Your team sucks. There, I said it.
If you disagree with me, maybe you can use some of your precious advanced metrics to calculate my true shooting percentage for shots when I attempt to shove your calculator up your ass. (Hint: it’s 1.000.)
Brooklyn, your team’s financial situation could not be worse if Billy King used his expense account to help out all those Nigerian princes who keep emailing him when they’re in a pickle. You are paying a man twenty-one-and-a-half million dollars to score 13 points per game, and you’re committed to giving him a raise each of the next two seasons. That’s not salary cap mismanagement, Brooklyn. That’s a full-blown nightmare-inducing, hide-the-kids Rashard Lewis clusterf***.
It’s salaries like these that are making your team suck, Brooklyn, we both know this. But I don’t think you know how truly corrosive those salaries are in terms of creating a valiant team culture filled with true winners. I’m not even talking about some pussy locker room touchy-feely kumbaya-in-the-showers shit here, Brooklyn. I present to you the true reason why your team sucks (the weak-stomached among you have been warned):
Here is why you suck.
Do you see what all those mega salaries are doing to your team?! Forget the freedom of maneuverability that comes with staying under the luxury tax threshold, Brooklyn, you have spent so much money on seven-year-old All-Star performances that you can’t even afford your rookie coach a fucking computer. Have you ever seen a successful NBA front office that doesn’t have all those little magnety things to keep track of every mouth-breathing, suit-wearing bench guy in the league? Yeah, me neither! I have scoured all of the pixels in this picture and I can’t even find so much as a stack of Post-Its or index cards with some Scotch tape so poor ol’ Jason can assemble one of those things for himself.
It gets worse. Rigorous facio-muscular analysis of Kidd’s mug in this picture reveals an even more disturbing fact: that phone isn’t even connected to anything. Gaze into the dark pools of Kidd’s empty, disengaged eyes and tell me that he is participating in a conversation with another human being. And don’t play games with me now, Brooklyn: you know that that’s the look of a man who is trying his darndest to figure out why there’s not a talky voice inside the ear-mouth plastic banana like there usually is. Just remember that you’ve brought this upon yourselves by wasting away your last $5.6 million dollars on a grown-ass man whose signature move is to pretend that he’s a f***ing airplane.
At this rate, it’s going to take longer for the Nets to be serious contenders than it will take all of the league’s nyuck-nyucky, under-prepared announcers to learn how to pronounce Tornike Shengelia. Brooklyn, cut the shit and buy your coach a Rolodex or something. You’ve been put on notice, dammit.