When the Cow Bells Fall Silent

(Editor's note: I apologize to my fan that it has been so long since my last post.)

When I was struggling through my first adolescence during my high school years, I heard stories of real-life girls my age who were called a tease. Except quite often there was a word and a hyphen placed before the word tease. Many late hours did I scheme to meet such a creature. To no avail and little surprise, I never got the hyphenated girl. Regrettably there is a balance in the universe that dictates that a 16-year-old male with gentlemanly habits well beyond his years and hormones gets approximately the same from the opposite sex.

During my college years while my brothers were burning the midnight oil (and quite nearly my parent’s garage) with hyphenated women of all sorts, I did meet Mrs. Laz who had to beg for a goodnight kiss on our first date. The fact she agreed to a second evening out with me on the basis of a quick peck on the cheek may say more about her than me.

The reason the tease comes up is due to sports. The female tease causes a certain kind of frustration not easily requited in a crowded house with no locks on the doors. A sports tease is worse. It takes the whole body prisoner and doesn’t release it until all hope of being liberated back into normal society has vanished.

My sports tease, my never ending lost romance without any return on investment, is the Sacramento Kings.

Sure, there were moments when the Kings took me to the brink and then left me without as much as a good-bye peck on the cheek and cold shower. They have been able to keep me close and monogamous, sports speaking, by simply promising to give me what I want: a championship. I feel so cheap because I’ve been believing their promises for so long. Like the enabler I am, I continue to wait them out. The waiting may be over and I think I have finally mustered the strength to start talking about a break-up.

The Kings and I had our first real date six or seven years ago. It was a magical eveing – more than a peck on a cheek. I was tempted to take the risk and date the “pretty one” because of a trade for Chris Webber, a free-agent signing of Vlade Divac and the drafting of Jason Williams. Three pretty maids all in a row and they were all mine for the season; or so it seemed.

They were collectively so good looking that I missed key danger signs. Webber was damaged goods from several previous relationships and reluctant to get into another so soon, especially in a cowtown like Sacramento. But his rugged, muscular body and wink in his eye made all his suitors weak in the knees (which, ironically, turned out to be his weakness). Vlade, despite the fact he came aboard at age 50, brought along his skills from previous relationships, including many with much older Europeans. He had the guile of a worldly man and the playfulness of a youngster to keep it interesting. And Jason, flashy, impetuous Jason, came with a swagger and bad-boy attitude, just like those girls smoking out behind the high school gym.

It was a relationship that you knew was bad for you and one your mother would warn you against. But it all felt so good. For the first time, you were in the midst of a winning streak so it was easy to overlook the frayed edges. You could even envision settling down with them and exchanging Championship rings every year.

After a few years, our relationship went down hill. Webber kept the twinkle, Divac the finesse, but Jason stopped calling. For months I’d wait by the phone hoping against hope he’d just say hello or go through the motion of tattooing my name on his spindly arm. No such luck, however. I heard he moved to Canada and then to Memphis and later to south Florida. Someone who once dated him heard he was doing well in Miami but I don’t care anymore. I’ve shed enough tears over him, I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again. Besides, there was a new face in town with better pedigree and a far more stable personality. His name was Mike Bibby, and after never knowing where I stood with Jason, Bibby’s steadiness was far more appealing than J-Will’s style.

Now there was more promise with the core of Divac, Webber and Bibby. It felt even better when we traded an under-sized power forward named Corliss for a defensive stalwart name Doug, allowing a young Serbian sharpshooter the chance to play at the three. I never gave a moment’s thought that Doug came with the baggage of a relationship that was embarrassingly clingy.

There were no longer just the three to keep my fantasy going, there was a full five stars to watch. You knew there would be children and grandchildren to bring up with this bunch. And the bench? Oh, the bench could have outplayed nearly all of the others with Bobby and Hedo, and Gerald, and Jon. We called them the “Bench Mob” and between them and the five stars, never had so many white guys outside of Boston caused so many hearts to flutter.

Did you ever have one of those relationships where there were so many good things happening that it just had to be wrong? Twice these guys took me to the brink of the Championship altar and twice they left me there in a tuxedo and a real bow tie, not just the kind you clip on your collar. Suddenly my stars couldn’t perform. These missed the gimmies one year and said they felt it best to wait for another year. The next year they stumbled down the aisle, one with a bum knee the others with that glassed-over look as if they were searching for the church exit and hoping the priest got drunk in the confessional with an altar boy and wouldn’t show up. I knew in my heart it just wasn’t right. They were forever damaged goods and no amount of vases full of flowers or awkward poetry would work anymore (although the chocolates had me for a while).

I admit it, I started over. I said good-bye to all of them except for Peja and Mike and told them to come around every now and again and I might take them out for a drink if I was feeling charitable; no hard feelings, it just didn’t work out between us.

Now there is a new bunch surrounding the remaining two – the two I had only half a heart for, Mike and Peja. There’s a new guy named Shareef who never had a good home and seemed to fail no matter how hard he tried, but he’s so good looking on the outside that you had to take him. There are no plans to make much of an investment in him, though. Another guy just started hanging around named Bonzi. He’s on his best behavior right now, trying to fit in and feel loved and escape his past. I’ve heard about it; the drug use, fights, no heart. It’s easy to tread cautiously with him and not be swept away by a few pretty quotes in the paper and a strong desire to please. Even Corliss came back (unfortunately not Corliss Campbell), and, you know, it’s not too bad having him around as long as you don’t have to think about him that much.

For the past few years there has been a simple country boy named Brad at the arena. One moment you want to love him but there are too many times he chews tobacco and burps whenever you bring him home to your parents. He sometimes puts in a big effort but too often he sulks when things aren’t going his way. I just don’t have anything left for malcontents.

Peja’s become distant, protecting himself from the pain of playing the game. You wish he would just drop the pretty-boy persona and put more heart and energy into our relationship, but I’m learning that you can’t start out expecting to change the man. Poor Mike. He has a faraway look in his eye. I suspect he’s lonely now that all his friends are hanging out in LA, Philly, Detroit and Houston. It seems he’s just going through the motions of our relationship and it’s tough to bear.

I tune them out now. There are times when I know they’re on TV and all I can think of is heading for the bedroom with a bottle of Ambien stolen from my daughter and watching Will and Grace re-runs. Some days I wish I was Will, or even Grace; I don’t think it matters anymore my heart is so beat up.

Don’t get me wrong, they have their moments. They won three straight in fine fashion after dropping five straight. I’m too jaded now and I’ve learned when a tease is just a tease. I’ve been there before and I just won’t go down that road again.

I have my eyes open on a new bunch in Philly who seem to have a heart if not a lot of wins. There’s a steady bunch in San Antonio and Detroit. They have occasional flash of personality but always in the context of doing what’s best for the others. I think about them a lot, but following the words of JB, “I had a lover, it’s so hard to risk another these days." If only JB was Jon Barry….