The King is dinged, long live the King's elbow.
He's fine, though what troubles me most about the upcoming [insert combat-related colloquialism here] against Boston is nothing X-and-O related, no Pierce-ian truthiness, no Shaq Fu free throw adventuring, but something more subtle, a growing monochrome tint upon the technicolor conference semifinal canvas: just how bloody awful Rasheed Wallace has become.
Not merely an old, aging gracefully samurai warrior archetype able to plop his increasing flab onto the hardwood in order to display, reminiscent of a peacock, one final time that classic, bug-eyed, a foul on me?ball-don't-lie!a technical? stare into a specific point in the space-time continuum, a cosmic meeting of the x, y and z axes within a documented time frame, visible only to his insectoid globes, but awful, fucking awful.
I miss the little scamp already. Sniff.