In a way, it can explain why I liked the Suns.
For you see, Wisconsin in the early 90’s was essentially Bulls country. It’s too long and indepth of a story for me to get to in blog form. But that being said? Suffice it to say that I delevoped an annoyance of dynastys, Michael Jordan, as well as competitiveness during those formative years.
Suffice it to say? I attached myself to the first rival that would be able to make it a series. And during the spectacular flooding of 1993? My family had a sidewinder of a journey from Golden Valley to Portage. We got re-routed at Osseo and suffice it to say the day ended with the triple overtime classic where the Suns outlasted the Bulls.
Memorable games when you’re young attach you to weird teams.
And this is why the state of the Phoenix Suns makes me morose. There are much better treatises on the whys and hows. Suffice it to say that Jack McCallum’s book has become an obituary for the competent Phoenix Suns. The greatest show on Parquet has turned into the dessicated husk that’s about to turn into a slightly warmer version of the L.A. Clippers.
Watch them trade Amare for J.J. Hickson, an expiring contract and the potential rights to Jerel McNeal. C’est la vie.