Asparagus in Cleveland

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Asparagus in Cleveland

I find myself torn during these NBA playoffs. On one hand, I'm ecstatic that my Sixers have stolen two of the first three games against Orlando. On the other hand, I know it doesn't matter.

Maybe it doesn't matter because the Magic will eventually decide enough is enough and end this nonsense. In my best Rihanni-like personification, I pathetically hold out hope despite knowing better.

Even though everyone else but me can see that ultimately there's no chance, I still entertain thoughts to the contrary.

Let's just say as a Sixers fan, I can relate when she performs "Hate That I Love You."

So while I continue this abusive relationship, my thoughts delve deeper into denial.

What if?

I mean hey, we are up two games to one, so why not indulge in a little wishful thinking?

A young Chicago team has shown us that the depleted Celtics are vulnerable and no longer the force they were at home during last season's playoff run. Although Boston has seemed to regain their swagger in game three in Chicago, it's not as insane to think my Sixers could pull off the upset as it was three weeks ago.

That's assuming my wishful thinking leads them past Superman and his long range assassins.

Why do I do this to myself?

OK, so let's say the Andres lead Philly over Orlando and then somehow manage to carry that momentum into Boston and win game seven on a bad non-call.

Does it even matter?

LeBron James isn't going to see a game six this year until the NBA Finals. As a matter of fact, it wouldn't shock me if Cleveland went 12-1 through the Eastern Conference.

So back to my original point. I'm torn.

How can I get excited when no matter how great the ride may be at first, looming further on the time-line is that one thing you want to avoid, but know you can't?

I love steak and red potatoes. You know what I mean—that steak marinating for three days before the moment you finally light the charcoal. Unfortunately, my wife believes that asparagus is healthy for me, so lumped onto the same plate I stare at it, contemplating my next move.

Side note—I did not know, until the other night, the poignant effect that asparagus has on the scent of human urine. I once thought there was no worse smell than that of burning hair. Now, I'm not so sure...

I'm the type of guy who has to get the stuff I'm not looking forward to over with immediately so I can sit back and enjoy the finer things in life. It nags at me knowing "it" is still there looming, so much so that it actually interferes with my ability to appreciate anything else until I dispose of "it."

So I dig into the asparagus first.

Like I said earlier, nobody is going to challenge LeBron this year from the East. Not even in my Rihanni-like fantasy world can I fathom a fairy tale ending involving my Sixers.

So again, I'm torn.

On one hand, beating the Magic would be those perfectly seasoned red potatoes that I love so much.

Upsetting the Celts would represent that fitly prepared 20 oz. steak, so impeccably seared that even Linda McCartney would have to be impressed.

Unfortunately, left on my plate is still that damn asparagus staring back at me, waiting for me.

And there's no getting around it.

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