Heaven is a Playground

When the chosen one hung up his keyboard back in... well, whenever the fuck it was... we all knew it was more Jay-Z than Van-H. I couldn't blame him. After all, the man had been extra prolific. 48 minutes per game x 82 territory. The other starters - Washington, Hasselbeck and Jarobi - made the current Cavs look like Pippen, Grant and BJ/Kerr. And if you don't get the reference, that means we didn't make enough shots. Mea culpa.

So he took a rest. Was he burned out and starving to death like Rian Malan? Did he get the subterranean homeboy blues? I don't know - I got the same memo you all got. But deep down, we all knew it was only a matter of time until Forbes pulled on his chucks, picked up his ball and started popping again.

That basketball/ink jones is one in the same. Gets in your blood and becomes your pulse. Makes you bounce, spit, pass and fire. Makes you step on the court, rather than watch. Makes you hunt that loose ball. Makes you want to spin that leather in your palms and feel its amber cadence. Makes you see lanes, angles and, occasionally, through time. Sometimes your shot is on and that hoop is as wide as the ocean. Other times, a man can't hit nothing and it burns. Burns like nothing else.

What makes the game unique is that it can be a team of five, one on one or just you, a street light and some time to kill. Whatever the equation, once you get that jones... you're gone.

And once you're gone, you'll always find your way back.