I know I’m supposed to care only about basketball. About pick-and-rolls, defensive switches, and whatever fresh hell our salary cap has gotten itself into. But I don’t stop there. I love the Phoenix Suns, every sweaty, orange-tinted second of them, even with the bloated shooting guard depth chart that looks more like a hoarder’s stash than a roster.
But I’m just as enamored with the strange little side quests the NBA offers.
The new uniforms? Inject them into my veins. The sneakers each guy laces up? I’m watching. The jersey numbers they choose and the quiet mythology behind them?