Gummi bear? It's been in my pocket; they're real warm and soft.
I can picture you reading this right now: Dead tired on Day One of your return to work after a nightmare holiday weekend. A weekend that, despite the best of intentions, had all the allure of a real-life Ed Rooney experience.
You've been outsmarted by disrespectful teens, hurt from social and cultural institutions, and beaten down by your all too frequent self-admission that you are not where you thought you'd be twenty years ago. But you can relax because the unofficial beginning of Summer has struck like a Grandfather Clock in the middle of the night: unapologetic, without the least chance that you did not hear it, and the knowledge that its echo will not soon depart your senses.
The aforementioned chime is the realization that the Astros are officially imploding. The core players are not delivering, USDA prime pitchers are melting down, and management is unwilling to accept that a turnaround is as unlikely as a humidity-free Houston summer.
As disgusted as you may be with the current professional sports climate locally, celebrate instead the national and nostalgic reminiscent return to the sports legend lore of yesteryear: Lakers v. Celtics. There'll be no McHale clotheslining of Rambis, or Magic fast-break dishes, but you can join in on the festivity of great competition.
And you better. Try to fight off and not be distracted by the peripherally nauseating thought of the next taste that's coming soon to Houston sports fans, because here comes Football. A sport whose local franchise's playbook is as full of excuses as it is successes.
Houston Football? It's been in my pocket; it's real warm and soft.