I’m writing my Super Bowl preview currently, and because I didn’t want to release it too soon, enjoy this poem in the meantime.

Fat and Happy, by Ian Cobb

Call him fat and happy,

because he was a bit fat,

and he was a lot happy.

Every day was an adventure,

Ricky Rubio made sure of that.

The world seemed so open then,

constantly evolving throughout his mind.

Names like Al Jefferson, Jonny Flynn, Gorgui Dieng

would periodically appear and disappear,

Did they exist? Perhaps not, or perhaps only to appear

in Kevin Love’s story. Because it was.

His Story. And he loved it.

Then onto Cleveland, where he was at first

a scraggly-haired crusader, swashbuckling his way through the East,

with a King and his knights by his side.

It was still His Story.

That first one meant more, not because Minnesota wasn’t fun,

but rather 2016 marked his turning into a man.

He lost some weight and became a cop,

instead of a masked vigilante

He wore the Goodyear badge with pride.

This game meant something now, he realized.

He became more intense, less sensitive, tougher,

if that makes any sense,

It was still His Story,

but perhaps he loosened his grip on the pen.

But how is it that something once so happy

can become so sad?

It’s 2019, and he’s skinny.

LeBron is long gone,

and so is the happiness that came with.

He remembers the days when he would prance around, fleet-footed,

laughing with The King and his knights

over god knows what. Their Halloween parties were legendary.

No more parties.

David Nwaba is the endgame now.

The Cavaliers have abandoned ship,

and forgotten he was still on.

A flood of Alec Burkses and George Hills and Collin Sextons have flooded the boat,

sapping the joy out of him.

Sometimes he looks at Cedi Osman and wonders where it all went.

Life is like that inbounds pass,

Slapped weakly onto the court,

Because nobody cares, and neither does he.

He barely plays for the next few years,

either on the bench or out of the picture,

while names like Jordan Clarkson, Andre Drummond, and Dante Exum

circle the drain.

Only this time, they don’t exist to be a part of His Story,

they exist outside of the book entirely.

He still claims it’s His Story,

he has seized the pen once more with tight grip.

Anger, selfishness inflict his vision

Suddenly, this no longer resembles a game at all.

He sits in his hotel, alone,

biding the days until he can get out of this hellhole.

He can’t even bring himself to get out of bed.

He’s starving himself.

Then suddenly, there is hope.

A diminutive, spirited bird lands,

and a pair of lumbering oak trees sprout,

and just like that, there’s a forest among the factories.

He plays more and more, starting no games,

but enjoying them nonetheless.

He relishes his new role, and smiles become more and more frequent.

He hardly hangs out in his hotel anymore.

Now, we find him in a new place. Miami.

He has gone from the leader of the pirate ship to an crewmate,

just along for the ride. This isn’t His Story anymore, and he’s fine with that now.

He tells the youngsters stories, pranks the high-ranking members,

even gives the captain bad haircuts as a dare.

It’s fun for him again.

He now realizes,

again,

that it’s all just a game, really.

But he’s learning, too.

The old him wouldn’t have stopped and smelled the roses.

But this time, the Josh Richardsons, Jaime Jaquez Jrs, and Cody Zellers

mean something to him.

He’s not plump, exactly.

He’s not sure if that blissfulness will ever come back.

But he’s trying to find it.

Super Bowl preview should be out by Friday. Thanks for humoring me.

-Ian

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