(Note: Most of this post is fun to read to yourself in the Little Penny voice)I love the NBA. I regularly defend the league from sports talk radio-influenced, ESPN-ticker regurgitating know-it-alls. But man, this season has been a bummer. I can't even call myself a Knicks fan. I've watched zero games this year. I never felt compelled to watch Steve Francis and Stephon Marbury argue about whose neck tattoo is bigger. Watching Eddy Curry play basketball reminds of how I was when I stood 5'0" as a 14-year old and weighed 165 lbs. Like he's got a fanny pack on turned backwards underneath the jersey. Can't do it.
It's that song - the Pussycat Girls song that plays in between timeouts on ESPN. It's the worst. It doesn't even come close to setting the mood the way it was set in the early 90s. Everytime I heard NBC's jingle, goosebumps sprang up on my calves and forearms out of reflex. Imagine Marv and the Czar breaking down a pick and roll, teasing each other as they go. Remember the hair styles, the high tops, and the stars. Remember when Penny Hardaway was the next Magic, when Scottie Pippen carried Mike off the Utah Jazz floor, when Hakeem the Dream gave Patrick Ewing a lesson in grace.
Now imagine the Pussycat Dolls singing their annoying , overly campy faux-swing tune.
Yeah, I know. They're hot. But they're just vapid marketing objects, models who were told that they could make money by singing. Fine, I know, they're really, really hot. But they're tooling around with my NBA. The only reward for listening to Mark Jackson call a game on ESPN is the knowledge that sometime soon you'll get the blissful pleasure of hanging out with Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith, dissecting NBA playoff basketball.
Now for that, I can't wait.
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