Believe it or not, but Pelicans game day has been a stroll through the Bill Murray classic, “Groundhog Day.”
A repetition of rushing from work to get to the game on time while soaked in rum, shoving CBD foodery down my throat so that I can still get a glimpse of warmups, tipping the change cup-shaking homeless guy a dollar, taking the steps up to the arena and buying a shitty but somewhat efficient SKC latte.
Once in my seat, gazing upon bad offensive set after bad offensive set, viewing superstar big men play on the perimeter, noticing Dante Cunningham as the only player cutting to the basket — perhaps because Luke Babbitt left him all of his ‘90s emo records turning him into a cutter, beholding the Donald-Trump-trying-to-explain-how-the-wall-will-be-funded-like plays out of timeouts to watching moments of hope sunk with anvils tied to pianos tied to four dead elephants stuffed with concrete of despair.