Would it surprise anyone to learn that Gregg Popovich — he of the brusque sideline interviews, refusal to listen to Stephen Jackson’s rapping and other general grumpiness — would think that one of his players is online too much? And would it surprise anyone to learn that that player was Mr. Rapsobeat himself, Stephen Jackson?
“Jack’s a pain in the (butt),” Popovich said. “Look at him, all he does is twitters.
“He’s twittering some stuff right now that’ll probably get him fined, and then I’ve got to call the league and talk to the league and say, ‘Yeah, I talked to him.’ ”
Jackson then chimed in and said: “It’s not Twitter. It’s Instagram.”
Not much else for me to say here except for that this is perfect. Every part of it — Pop’s weird usage of “twitter” in a sentence, their relationship that no one understands but everyone adores, Jackson’s quote at the end — it is all perfectly Spurs-y. I just want to take a picture of this moment, throw the Brannan filter on it and call it a day. 16 likes, for sure.
I am not sure how this is legal, but it’s serendipitous that Courtney “Block Your Free Throw” Kirkland was on the pass-back duties. He certainly understands the need to make any free throw as weird as possible, so I’m glad he let this slide. Tony Parker’s game needed just a few more pump fakes and this is a nice way to work those in.
Oh, and the Thunder apparently call Nick Collison “Dirty,” so I think we should too.
I’m not entirely sure what is going on with this whole thing, but this is easily my favorite rap song ever about Gregg Popovich. And Old Man in the Oxford University T-Shirt (OMOUT is his rap name) is my new favorite rapper. Watch this and try to disagree.
Be right back — I have to go wash my brain out with soap from thinking about Don Nelson coaching Tim Duncan. I’m sure Nelly would have found a great way to turn Timmy Deucecan in to a spot-up 3-point shooter, but I feel icky even considering the possibility.
Shea Serrano took his twin 5-year-old sons to Monday night’s Spurs-Rockets game. This is what transpired.
6:30 p.m.: Big night. Tonight, the boys (my twin 5-year-old sons) and I are going to watch the Spurs/Rockets game at the Toyota Center in Houston. It’ll be their first in-person Spurs game ever, and only the second pro basketball game of their lives (I took them to go watch the Clippers back when Blake Griffin first started dunking on everyone’s heads during his second rookie season, but they were barely past baby then so all they wanted to do was be shitty at skeeball in the Kid Zone in the stadium).
I’m excited. I don’t anticipate the boys’ll make it past the second quarter, but whatevs. My dad started taking me to Spurs games around the same age too; the actual games were always incidental. I suspect just about all of the people that read this site (or any site about sports, really) have similar memories of similar time spent with their fathers.
I also suspect just about all of the people that read this site (or any site about sports, really, but definitely specifically this one) are really, really good at things like foosball and navigating Microsoft Excel, but that’s a different thing.
Boy B: Who’s playing, Daddy?
Me: The Spurs and the Rockets.
Boy B: The Rockets are from where?
Me: From Houston, where you were born. They’re like the Texans, but basketball.
Boy B: Oh. And the Spurs are from San Antonio, because that’s where you were born?
Boy B: Who else was born in San Antonio?
Me: … Umm, oh, well grandma lives in San Antonio.
Boy B: IS GRANDMA GOING TO PLAY?!?!?!
Boy B: MAMA! GRANDMA PLAYS FOR THE SPURS!
Me: Jesus Christ.
6:53: At the stadium. The boys have noticed the sign at the top and, with the intensity of 1,000 suns, are doing their best to sound it out. “Toy-oh-ta. Toy-yota? TOY YODA?! YODA! DADDY, DOES YODA PLAY FOR THE ROCKETS?!” What the fuck is happening right now? We haven’t even made it inside yet.
Outside of his slam against the Rockets, one against the Raptors a couple years ago, and those two dunks he had against us in the Rock the Court tournament, these are actually the only other dunks of Matt Bonner’s entire basketball career. I know it’s a surprise, but it has to be true.