Writer's note: The team has played like garbage for too many stretches of late, so I'm trashing San Antonio to get it to win more games. I hope this hogwash spurs the squad to a double-digit game winning streak and a fifth title. At 9-9, the Spurs boast the worst December record of Tim Duncan's career. No, I don't think he's an "old geezer who can't play anymore."
I swore against this years ago. I know it's stupid.
I'm going to do something no one should ever do to the San Antonio Spurs in December.
As in, I think they're done, ready to be put in a casket for a massive fan viewing.
Get out your shovels. Start digging.
This $80 million team looks more like an El Camino with no transmission than a fancy sports car on the Autobahn.
Richard Jefferson has been invisible in 90 percent of all of the fourth quarters in which he has played. He cannot make his free throws.
Tony Parker is a choke artist. He missed a wide open jumper that would have won the game tonight.
Tim Duncan is an old geezer who can't play anymore. My grandpa would take him to the woodshed, and he walks around with an oxygen tank.
Manu Ginobili need not check into any more basketball games. He would be as effective laying on a stretcher as he is on the court.
Don't get me started on Antonio McDyess. He's so washed up, his hands are bleeding from all of the soap and water. Zero points in three games after a double-double in Houston? Come on.
Final minutes of a close game against a playoff hopeful? I'm not sure this squad has a pulse. It has no heart, no will to win.
Tuesday marked the first time in Duncan's career the Utah Jazz won a season series against the Spurs.
Screw em'. They stink like fish guts and Bengay. Champions? Ha. Try has-been chumps.
I am burying the Spurs in hopes that such an extreme, premature act will infuriate the team enough to give a damn.
Yes, this is a brute, reactionary motivational ploy. It might work or it might expose me as dumber than a swimsuit model after a frontal lobotomy.
San Antonio does not need to beat the Sacramento Kings or Charlotte Bobcats this week. It needed a victory tonight like Regis Philbin does his back pills.
This was a must-win, a do or die. Well, folks, the Spurs died.
Choke. Gag. Pawned. Lottery-bound team.
The Houston Chronicle once published a picture of a tombstone that read "RIP: 2004 Houston Astros season." The team was 15 games under .500 then.
After the paper's harsh condemnation of the lousy early record ran, the Astros took off and did not stop until Game Six of the National League Championship series.
The next year, they recovered from another ghastly start to clinch the franchise's first ever World Series berth.
Former Chronicle columnist Fran Blinebury called Houston "Choke City" when the Rockets dropped 20-point leads in back-to-back home playoff games against the Phoenix Suns. He made sure editors ran the headline in large, bold print, so no one would miss it.
The Rockets would erase a 3-1 series deficit and eventually win their second consecutive NBA crown. After beating the Suns in seven games, the Chronicle altered its phrase.
At 9-9. the Spurs are a .500 ball club. If this were baseball and we were talking a first basemen, that number would be fantastic.
I didn't see a pitcher's mound or a center field at Energy Solutions Arena—just a lousy basketball team lacking a competitive spark.
Since when do almost comebacks count in the 'W' column?
I would rather smell vomit than what the Spurs are cooking.
Vanilla ice cream topped with potted meat tastes better than this.
So, get out your shovels. Dig away. If any Spur starts breathing or screaming, smack them over the head until they're unconscious again.
An overpriced underachiever with a hopeless roster stuck in the mud deserves a proper burial.
A thorough one.