By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
Ah, we've risen to the top. Not only is hoops my favorite sport, but more specifically the Mavs give all us God-fearing Texans the best shot we have at a championship. Hoooeee.
Let's see, when I left, the Mavs had won 50 games and a first-round playoff series. Last year, while I was gone, they won 50 games and a first-round playoff series. Doesn't appear to be much progress there, but you can't blame the effort. Don Nelson and Mark Cuban made a good trade when they swapped underachieving Juwan Howard for Raef LaFrentz and parts.
In any case, the Mavs have a bigger obstacle on their way to a title. Bigger, even, than Michael Finley's maddening reluctance to play sound defense on the regular. Ironically, their biggest obstacle is also their chief benefactor: one Mark Cuban.
He has become the madman that his ubiquitous, mischievous grin always betrayed him to be. Running on the court, screaming at officials, working at Dairy Queen--those were merely innocent precursors to the unfortunate Dmagazine incident, wherein he threatened to slice the fucking nuts (his words, not mine) from the person of senior editor Tim Rogers. Why? Because Rogers, a bastard after my own heart, suggested he could print the name of Cuban's fiancee.
Somewhere, for emergency reasons, the Mavs' public relations department surely keeps one of those nifty white jackets with the arms that latch in back. Just in case.
No doubt the voices talk to him now, scream at him, demand that he defend his woman. Tiffany Stewart, that's her name.
Would you look at that? I've gone and done it now. A mortal sin: throwing her name in print. My manhood is in danger.
That's surely 'nough fer now, podner. More next week. Hoooeee!