Guest Lecturer Smizz checks in with quick-flowing prose inspired by the Wunderkind, Stephen Curry
There's a quaint, old-world Deli/Bakery on the corner of the Ichabod's Landing in the historic village of Sleepy Hollow, N.Y. Every Halloween this area garners some national visibility due to that classic, werd-around-the-crackling-campfire tale that Washington Irving scripted back in the day. The bugged-out saga has certainly morphed into an instant staple on the "Are You Afraid Of The Dark?" circuit, but let's be serious: Halloween doesn't hold the significance it once did to me. Through the evolution of my college years, the inevitable has cracked the surface and is now here to stay as I begin to reach scumbag stage. The college years have helped shift my motivation-spurred gaze from candy corn, butterfingers, and 100 grand (that's my man, 100 grand/that dude's wild, black-and-mild-young) to extremely kinky outfits, cat woman and nurse uniforms, and....I'm starting to get out of my element here.
Allow me start over. At this aforementioned old-school deli that's comfortably nestled in between the bridge leading to Ichabod's Landing and some other archetype old-school building (I happen to believe it's a chop shop due to my postulation that these cats employed there-all of whom rock cut-offs, ill tattoos of skull-and-crossbones which are emblazoned on their arms and necks, and the permanent pockmarks that come from hooping on the nearby no drips, no foul court-all think they're Mickey Rourke-hard and shoot me a cold, Foreman-Grill whenever I happen to saunter into the deli), there's a wonderful employee by the name of David "Chico" Gonzalez. I know, it sounds tremendously like David Gonzalvez, the Richmond guard who hung 25 on Memphis during a 80-63 loss back on Nov. 6. The Cheeksta, who is actually my boy, happens to service my workaday, hallmark order of a Bacon egg and cheese on a roll and a small coffee with milk but no sugar.
In the epoch where we seem to argue every call vehemently and take Shit, I need a concerta or I'm never going to get back to the situation with Chico and our recent discussion and how it has anything to do with fuckin' Raleigh yesterday and the wild fuckin' tourney... (just waltzed into the kitchen and downed a bottle of ocean spray coupled with a 30-milligram concerta) Anyway, Chico and I talk quite often. We discuss just about everything from the state of the union to how there's a whisper of wonder (amongst the townsfolk) about whether the Pelicans' move from the water to the south was permanent or just for the winter season. We've had conversations about Pat Riley's recent decision to tank the season and blaze the recruiting trails in hope of scoring a top-stratum, top-5 pick to run with D.Wade and The Matrix next year. We talk about how my brother continues to shoot photography, some sports photography, yet refuses to come out to a sporting event with us. This is perhaps because he's married to the belief that the king's ransom he shells out in the big city of dreams every weekend makes such an event fiscally unfeasible (right Clyde), since father has no longer agreed to finance him. The other day, however, Chico, the Queens-bred hoop fiend brought to my attention (as I perused the mouth-watering goods of the bakery) the evolution of Dell Curry's little young one, Stephen. Dude certainly elevated from obscurity last seasoning, hitting up Maryland for 30 to cap off a fine freshman campaign that saw him average 22 points in 30 minutes. This, of course, was after the 6-foot neophyte slipped under the radar and was overlooked by a bevy of ACC schools. Those who remember his quick-release father, Dell Curry, scorching the NBA nets know that he has a good bloodline. Chico reminded me of this the other day, mentioning how underrated he was and that he left a lasting legacy as one of the NBA's best pure and quick-strike assassins. Whatever blueprint the elder Curry may have left, Stephen is re-writing the script. He erupted for 40 before our very eyes yesterday, blitzing Gonzaga with a steady mix of trey bombs from a different area code, quick slashes to the cup and-as his youngness pointed out-an unprecedented craft for coming off screens and curls ready to stick with a blink-quick trigger. "It was like an opening night, start performance on Broadway," Davidson coach Bob McKillop told the New York Post. "And he (Curry) was the star, but he had a great cast."Curry, whose in his second year at Davidson but looks like he can be in his second year of high school, turned in an epic showing that jacked that Wildcats' winning streak to 24 games. Not bad for a kid whose father's alma mater (Virginia Tech) didn't want to take a gamble on the slender guard, fearing he was too small and frail to emerge into an impact player.Now Curry is laughing his way to the ensuing round, as Davidson tries to pull off a major upset as they face No.2 Georgetown (editor's note: Davidson beat Georgetown yesterday behind 30 points from Curry).
Please don't get it confused, I ask you. Chico knows his hoop. No doubt about it. He's seen a myriad of mythical performances and lived through a liquor store-list of battles. Davidson's two wins this weekend were games you will tell your grandchildren about. And all along, Chico knew it was bound to happen. He asks you to slip into his size 10 Air Pips, his beloved Yankee fitted, and do the same.