Author: Drew Lazzara

Growing up, I hated Michael Jordan. And I regret it deeply.

The career of the “Greatest of All Time” is an exceedingly rare and precious thing. By definition, there can only be one in all of history, and, arrogant though this line of thinking is, Jordan’s probably was that career—it casts a deep and seemingly inescapable shadow over anyone attempting to eclipse his accomplishments. Even Halley’s Comet will stroll through the neighborhood every 75 years or so; the greatest basketball career in history has, in all likelihood, come and gone forever.

Being a sports fan is mostly torture.

One moment, you’re watching your beloved Indiana Pacers—perhaps the NBA’s deepest and most talented roster—dismantle the hated Detroit Pistons, on the road, without their unquestioned leader and future Hall-of-Famer Reggie Miller, establishing themselves as legitimate title favorites in the process. The next moment, a cowardly fan is whipping a beer at Ron Artest, and Ben Wallace’s brother is punching out your hopes and dreams.