It was Cecil who broke the news to me yesterday that Stephen Jackson had departed for the East, leaving behind the flaming mass of writhing agony that is Your Golden State Warriors Basketball Team. Hard to believe that it was only two and a half years ago that I was writing giddy little love poems to Don Nelson and his ragtag bunch of small-w warriors as they shocked the world by upending the mighty Dallas Mavericks.
Where are they now? Jason Richardson, unceremoniously dumped for salary cap room. Baron Davis wearing a Clippers jersey, the most shameful item of clothing in all of basketball, possibly all of sports. Al Harrington keeping LeBron’s seat warm in New York, in between launching up threes. And now Captain Jack, that lovable lunatic, gone in a cloud of bitterness and recrimination. The only ones left are Nellie himself — increasingly embattled, looking more and more like Captain Ahab or Colonel Kurtz — and moped enthusiast Monta Ellis, who is no doubt on the phone to his agent right this minute looking to follow Jackson out of town.
It’s an ugly scene, and there’s no comfort to be had from watching the Raiders, who are a mortal lock to lose pretty much every game they play. (Though there is money to be made betting on their opponents.) As a matter of fact it’s hard to say which organization is more dysfunctional these days. And, honestly, why bother? I’m going to take a nap now; wake me up when either Chris Cohan or Al Davis drops dead.