Following the NBA is a solitary pursuit in Kansas City.
This town has neither a team nor devoted fans of professional basketball. Most of my friends view me as a strange eccentric when I speak of the NBA. They listen politely to my breathless updates with a bemused grin; I sit in silence while they watch their college games.
Last night was Game One of the NBA Finals, the showcase event of the season. This year's matchup has everything: one of the professional sport's most talented players in Kobe Bryant; two of the league's most storied franchises in the Celtics and Lakers; and three Boston stars trying to win the first championship of their terrific careers.
The game got off to a compelling start. Playing in Boston, the Lakers had a small lead when Paul Pierce, the heart and soul of the Celtics, was carried off the court with what appeared to be a devastating injury. Minutes later, Pierce returned....
.... and Bryan Busby appeared on my screen. There was weather afoot. For the rest of the third quarter, Busby and his fellow meteorologists interrupted the game with reports on the rainfall in the Northland and St. Jo.
DAMMIT. They just had to interrupt the NBA to regurgitate press releases from the National Weather Service. This wasn't a tornado warning. It was only rain. We wouldn't melt -- we'd lived through this. Screw you, Bryan, screw your new data. Let’s get back to the game, I thought, and let the farmers fend for themselves.
And then the power went out.
In the darkness, I forgave Bryan Busby.
Poetic justice, on the other hand, can now bite me.
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