Ed Helicopter Jones
04-06-2010, 11:41 AM
Spam Pilgrimage VIII – Back from the Brink
Chopper Log: Spam Date April 6, 2010 – Greetings Brothers and Sisters of the mighty SPAM. I have to start this year’s SPAM pilgrimage post with a confession. I have sinned a mighty sin against the SPAM. I tried to forget what the SPAM has done for the members of SPAMnation in years’ past. I had begun to allow myself to be pulled into the belief that the SPAM wasn’t real. I watched as the Spurs struggled through a miserable regular season. I watched new players not meshing with the veterans. I watched Tim Duncan slow down after the all-star break. I watched Tony Parker struggle with foot injuries and go down with a broken hand. I saw Richard Jefferson play like he didn’t belong…like he was going through the motions and would never fit in with this team. I saw Manu looking old and frail, and a step slow, no leap, no explosion…I watched him become…I can’t even say without wincing…a jump shooter!! Super-Manu, tentative?!! I never thought I’d live to see the day! Then I listened as Gregg Popovich called Keith Bogans his cornerstone….and I shuddered…that is, if the definition of ‘shudder’ is crying hysterically and beating your head against the wall. I read everyone saying Pop is a horrible coach, that this team can’t win, and that the offseason moves were a huge mistake, and that the other teams had passed us by…and that the Spurs dynasty was no more. And I started to listen to these people…these uninspired SPAMless spirits….doubt filled me…I too began to believe we were done. I was devastated. Heartbroken, in fact. Nothing left to live for. Without SPAM, my life was over. SPAM was dead, and so was I.
So I packed up everything I’d purchased for the 2010 Pilgrimage: two pallets of SPAM, all of my SPAM attire, the All-SPAM diet plan and testicle cream (endorsed by Barry Bonds), my giant foam SPAM pimp hand, some plastic tubing and several gerbil cages, and a nun's habit and Santa Claus outfit and I threw them all in the trash. I put about 60 pounds of SPAM cans in each of the Hefty sacks I’d purchased and I placed them on the curb early on Monday about 4 weeks ago. Then I waited for the trash men to show up. Actually, I did more than wait. I hid behind the bushes along the front sidewalk of my house and I watched them pick up the fifteen 60 pound bags…and I laughed a hearty laugh as they struggled with the bags, and then, when I saw bags break and SPAM cans spilled all over the sidewalk I laughed even harder. In fact, I couldn’t contain my laughter from behind the bushes so I rolled out onto the sidewalk, and I laughed and rolled, laughed and rolled, laughed and rolled. And when the trash men realized I was laughing at them, and that I wasn’t the local retarded boy (Editor’s Note: I have been told that it is politically incorrect to use the word “retarded”. I apologize for any negative reference to the mentally challenged in this post. I, myself, however have been called “retarded” several times. My advice: never call anyone "retarded"...unless that person happens to be a Lakers fan) they grabbed the cans of SPAM from the broken bags and started throwing them at me…over and over…and they didn’t stop. SPAMdamn!!! It hurt…it really hurt, but I didn’t care. The hole in my heart was deeper and more painful than any pain these men could inflict. So I closed my eyes and waited…waited for end. The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was one of the trash men wearing a Lakers jersey and another in a Mavericks cap. “How SPAMfrickin’ ironic!” I thought. “SPAMMED to death…by a Laker and a Mavs fan no less!” “A perfect SPAMfreaking end!” I closed my eyes, and hoped the end would come quickly.
As the stoning…errr…SPAMMING, continued, I saw my real (non-Chopper Jones) life as a Spurs fan, flash before me………………….
…………………..I remembered the day in 3rd grade when I met my first Spurs player; George Karl showed up at my school and autographed a napkin for me as I ate a sandwich at lunch (it may have been a SPAM sandwich…I can’t remember). I handed the napkin back to him and asked if he could go ask George Gervin to sign it, too (true story…if you’re reading this, sorry George!) Then I moved on to recalling my 6th , 7th and 8th grade years and thought about the endless days I spent playing basketball with my buddies in the driveway of my friend’s house. We always had a Johnny Moore on the court, a Larry Kenon, a James Silas, of course the Iceman, and Edgar Jones (when he became a Spur in ’82), and there was some fag (Editors Note: Unfortunately “fag” was part of our vocabulary back then, so I’m going with it for theatrical purposes. I hold no ill will towards any man as it relates to his sexual orientation as long as he isn't a Lakers fan...and preferably likes women.) who played with us who always wanted to be Lew Alcindor. Actually I think he IS gay now (sorry for always calling you a Laker fag, Steve! I never thought it would stick!) I thought about all the times we’d go to the Hemisfair Arena and sit in $5 seats and cheer our Spurs and then we’d go home and re-enact the game we’d just watched. I remembered when the Spurs acquired Artis Gilmore and how I thought this was finally the team that would get over on the Lakers. I remembered the season with the A-Train where they started 27-22, but finished the season on a 26-7 run to win 53 games. That was the first time I saw the SPAM. Sadly, I can still see Artis trying to tip in a miss at the end of the playoff game when LA eliminated my Spurs yet again. Not quite enough SPAM…yet. I then remembered beating the crap out of Steve after that game.
I remembered my dad getting transferred out of state and how I was now forced to listen to games on a scratchy AM radio signal at night when the ionosphere would allow me to pickup WOAI between Mariachi music and evangelical radio station feeds from different parts of the country. I would read and absorb everything I could about the Spurs, memorizing box scores and still dreaming of being a player for them one day. When the Spurs had their drought years, I continued to cheer. I still believed that someday my loveable Spurs would win it all.
I then flashed to 1987 and how I’d been cheering for my Spurs for 11 years when HE became a Spur. The chosen one. The Neo. The Man. The Admiral. It would never be the same for San Antonio. It would never be the same for me. Suddenly the San Antonio Spurs were truly a force to be reckoned with. They were no longer the over-achieving ABA team trying to play with the big boys, they had arrived as a true NBA upcoming power. The franchise suddenly had a true superstar in every sense of the word. A freak of nature, an alien force. A living, breathing SPAMtopian if there’d ever been one. While his supporting cast was somewhat suspect, this unbelievable basketball god could single-handedly carry any four other players, men in drag, and practically any coach that didn’t chew on towels to 60-win seasons. Watching him made me believe that perhaps a championship banner would be hanging in the rafters in San Antonio…someday.
My memories shifted to 1991. The enemy power in the West was no longer the Lakers, but had become the Utah Jazz, Karl Malone and John Stockton. After those Showtime Lakers teams had their title runs there was now a new force in the conference that was just a little better than we were. They knew how to beat us. They were well coached. They were deeper than us. They were dirty freaking bastards…but they were good.
I continued to watch and cheer my Spurs, and at this point I had finished a masters degree and had started my career as a white collar desk jockey. My dreams of playing on the basketball court alongside the George Gervins of the world were shelved for more practical pursuits…but not in my mind. At night I would dream of fast break dunks down the lane, and finger rolls over outstretched defenders’ arms.
Then, in 1997, another miracle came along for my Spurs. The SPAM gods manipulated the draft lottery and Tim Duncan was the Spurs’ reward for their good fortune. Amazingly Duncan seemed to be an even more complete player than Mr. Robinson, and a perfect compliment to a franchise player who was still very capable of leading a team, but was ready to hand the franchise tag to someone he could trust to take over his spot. I watched in awe his rookie season as he displayed the footwork and post moves of a seasoned veteran. When Tim was drafted I figured he’d be an upgrade to Terry Cummings, but I had no idea how good he’d be. I particularly wanted to see how the rookie played against Karl “I’m a gun-toting, truck driving, redneck moron” Malone, my least favorite NBA player, and his pasty sidekick John Stockton. In his first game against Utah in November he had, 8 points and 13 rebounds. Game 2 against the Jazz that season: 9 points, 7 boards. Then…game three in February: 29 points and 15 rebounds…then in April: 34 points, 7 boards. Tim Duncan was putting his foot right on Karl Malone’s big booty. The rookie was not afraid. The rookie was owning not only Big Dumb Karl, but the rest of the league as well. A superstar was born. A superstar that knew SPAM.
Out of the blue....all of sudden it seemed, IT happened. In 1999 the planets aligned, the Universe poured forth its blessings and the Spurs won the NBA title. They recovered from a 6-8 start to put SPAM on full display going 31-5 after March 1st, and then continued to March through the post season at a 15-2 clip to win their first NBA title. The dynasty was born. SPAM was official. My life as a Spurs fan seemed complete. I was never happier than I was after game 5 against the Knicks. That moment ranks only below my son’s birth as the most happy day I’ve ever experienced. I can still remember what that feeling was like, basking in that glory, knowing the Spurs had finally climbed that mountain top….amazing!! A feeling that can never be repeated.
Like any fan, I came back wanting more the next season. But sadly I watched Tim go down with injury in 2000. There would be no repeat title. Even more displeasing was the fact that it was the LA Lakers and Shaq and Kobe that went on a 3 year run of titles…titles I thought my Spurs were worthy of winning. The Lakers?!! Why?!!! What did I do to deserve this?!!
In the fall of 2002 I discovered Spursreport.com. I created the user name “Edgar Jones” and was told I couldn’t have the same name as a real NBA player. So “Ed Helicopter Jones” I became. I was at home. I would get caught up reading the 50 page arguments between Marcus Bryant and Ghostwriter. I’d enjoy the posting brilliance that was Timvp. Another rookie on the site, Admiral had this amazing Spurs knowledge for a young kid…his love for the Spurs reminded me of, well, me. And then there was this guy named Mouse…the funniest homeless guy I’d ever encountered. And there were many, many more folks back then that I enjoyed getting to know. It was a whole new beginning for me. A whole new world in which to share my Spurs’ love. I was not a computer guy, or an internet person. I barely could use email, but I loved my newfound Spurs site.
That February (2003) the mood in Spurs internet universe had gotten downright nasty…three years without a title had created a lot of dissention in the Spurs forum. There were two rival factions warring over the Spurs and their plight. One group called for radical changes to the team and its roster. The other supported the coaching staff and the current personnel. Each side argued long and hard about the Spurs, but due to the team’s recent struggles and lack of recent post season success no one seemed to hold out a lot of hope about that team’s chances of unseating the reigning dynasty. A strange bit of déjà vu as it relates to the current state of Spur fandom.
That’s when it hit me. SPAM…..Spurs Peak after March. I recalled how it had first made itself evident that season with Gervin and Artis. I saw it clearly in 1999. Now I couldn’t believe it was gone. This 2002-2003 team was too good. Tim Duncan was too good. David Robinson was too good. He was retiring and he had earned the right to go out a champion. He deserved it. So I posted my first SPAM Pilgrimage thread predicting a strong March, April, May run and a second NBA title. People read it. It made sense to many. It followed the grand plan. It attempted to be funny. But it was also true. SPAMnation was born.
Oddly enough, the first SPAM Pilgrimage coincided with my foray into fatherhood. My child was born in 2003 and there were promotions in my workplace. 2003 was a pretty good year…a new baby, an NBA title for my favorite team, and some career advancement.
The next year we had SPAM Pilgrimage II, and then III, IV and V. These years included two more titles and always a strong end of season showing by our Spurs. Winning in the playoffs wasn’t a surprise, losing was. Post season success became an expectation…a requirement by the fans. During this amazing period for the Spurs I followed Timvp and Kori to their new website, Spurstalk, and took the annual SPAM Pilgrimage with me. Our numbers grew. The SPAM was clearly real and SPAMnation was out in full force. Sports writers around the world would document what those of us in SPAMnation had known for years…the Spurs Peak After March and carry that momentum into the post season every year. A force, those Spurs. You never want to play the Spurs in the post season because they are unafraid, they can beat anyone, anytime. This is the franchise everyone fears, that everyone wants to be. They are the Spurs and they are full of SPAM.
Soon before the ’06-’07 season someone very close to me passed away, and, similar to 2003, I just kind of knew that the Spurs would win the 2007 title. This person was a huge Spurs fan, and somehow I figured he now had the best seats in the house, watching the games that season and influencing the outcome however he could. I was oddly at peace throughout that ’07 playoffs, expecting victory, not wishing for it.
After that came SPAM Pilgrimage VI and VII and suddenly the luster had faded off the shiny blue can. In 2009 the Spurs ended SPAM Pilgrimage VII with a first round loss to the Mavericks….the SPAMdamn Mavericks!! I hate the Mavericks almost as much as I hate the Lakers…and that dumbass Karl Malone! And then the ’09-’10 season started so badly that I was fairly sure the whole idea of SPAM was lost. Our third straight year of disappointment. There’d be no peaking after March this year, right?!!......................
……………..and that brings me back to my sidewalk and the two trash men trying to kill me with my own cans of SPAM. I re-entered my magical world, my other reality…SPAMnation.
As I lay there…dying…my mind started to clear a little bit and I came out of my haze. My thoughts had moved on from the Spurs, and as per my custom I found myself dreaming about my special friend, Jessica Alba, wearing nothing but a nun’s habit and a small black bikini. We were on a beautiful tropical beach. Tiny wind-blown wisps of her beautiful blond hair sweep across her face...the pearl white beach sand stuck to her gorgeous toes. As usual she was licking my face. As usual I was dressed as Santa Claus. As usual she transformed into Mouse just when things started getting steamy.
SPAMdamnit!! WHY?!!! Startled, I opened my eyes. The trash men were gone. A few cans of SPAM lie on the sidewalk. I felt my head, my body, my balls (as per my custom). Everything felt about like it should. A few bruises and some internal bleeding, but nothing out of the ordinary for me. A typical Monday.
Sadly, I picked up the half dozen or so SPAM cans and went into the house.
I looked at the note pinned to the fridge. Yep, the wifey was out…again. Something about getting some detail work done on her chassis. I didn’t know she owned a car. She tends to go out a lot these days.
My stomach rumbled. I looked at the clock and apparently I’d been out cold on the sidewalk for awhile because it was supper time. It had been almost a year since I’d indulged in any SPAM, but here I sat, holding the slightly dented cans, a couple of them containing pieces of my scalp…or was that part of one of my testicles? It was hard to tell. Oh well, I peeled back the tin on one of the cans and slammed it down. Delicious!! I never get tired of SPAM!! Eagerly I open two more cans and devour them. I let the oil roll down my chin and marvel at the fact that each 12 oz can contains only 96 grams of fat and 4,740 mg of sodium and 1,080 calories. So, 288 grams of fat and 13,220 mg of sodium later I drift off to a SPAM induced slumber while gripping my chest as it beats an uneasy rhythmic beat…as per my custom. RATT A TAT….RATT A TAT TAT TAT….RATA TATTA TATTA RATTA ratta tatta rat tat ta ta RATATATATTTA…….and off I went.
Four hours later I’m awakened by a frightening hum. The SPAM??? No, my stomach. What the??!!!! SPAM never makes me sick! I love the SPAM. How could this be??? But it’s definitely my stomach making the noise I hear.
I run to the toilet. My forehead is sweating. Something has grown inside of me and needs to come out. (Editors’ Note: Mrs. Chopper says that every time I compare child birth to launching an enormous sausage of poop that I’m offensive to everything that is woman. After making several such jokes with friends and getting reprimand after reprimand I promised her and her girlfriends a couple of years ago I would never make such callous jokes again.) So, anyway, I find that my SPAMpoo contractions are only seconds apart and that I have to get to the white porcellin gurney. I put my feet in the stirrups and assume the birth position…I’m sweating. I’m fairly sure I’m fully dilated, but I’m afraid to check. Then out it comes without warning…I scream…I realize in that moment I should have opted for the episiotomy…it’s a beast…a swirly, giant, stinky disgusting beast of a poop child.
Like a proud papa I stare in at the toilet, admiring my creation. This lasts for several minutes, as per my custom.
When the time feels right, I pull out the paper blanket roll, wipe off the afterbirth and cover my beautiful, beastly SPAMpoo creation and prepare to launch him to freedom. I decide to name him Billy, and wish him well as I pull the release handle on the nursery wall.
Just then I hear it….a gurgle…a whimper…something calling out from the bowl.
What in the name of SPAM is going on?!! I look at the toilet, and am certain my eyes are deceiving me, but no! There it is, standing there, my SPAMpoo…looking at me, disgusted, disgusting, angry, & upset.
All I could think in that moment is that this obviously is a cheap rip-off and clear cut copyright infringement from the South Park series.
“What in the name of SPAM are you?!!!” I shout out, certain I’d taken one too many SPAM cans off my head that previous morning.
“Spurs pppeesk arrrtgdnndd manndaaauuu….prrerrhppssss ouurrrr onnnnnnnllyy pllllofffffff shhotttttttttttt.”
“I don’t speak crap!” At that moment I have an idea…. “Wait, let me pull out my Ducks / Poland / ThisPego translator!”
Quickly I run to the drawer and pull out my Ducks translator, aka a converted Mattel See and Say toy.
“Say it again!” I plead and I pull the string on the translator and watch the farmer spin around….
“Spurs Peak Around Manu….Perhaps Our Only Playoff
Shot”
…and then my beautiful creation stood on the edge of the bowl and waved to me. I waved back with a little tear in my eye. Then he dove into the still swirling bowl and headed towards Dallas, Texas.
“SPAMmen….I think” and “Goodbye, son!” was all I could say.
Then I contemplated the message I’d just received:
“SPAM POOPS…interesting. Spurs Peak Around Manu…Perhaps Our Only Playoff Shot.”
Not exactly the usual mode for the SPAM to deliver a message, in fact it's downright crappy (pardon the pun) but I’ll take it. It’s more hope for the season than I’ve had all year. I bask in the experience I just had. I scratch my balls for ten, fifteen minutes as per my custom. I wander back to my bedroom, put my head on my pillow, and fall into a deep, peaceful slumber.
I have vivid dreams that night. I see the big three playing healthy for the first time in years. I see the Mavs, Jazz and Lakers falling to the Spurs as they shock the world and reach the Finals for a fifth time. I see Manu playing this playoffs at the all-world level he’s capable of, with Tim and Tony both having a great post season as well. I see myself cheering for this team just as I have for almost 35 years, win or lose like a true fan should, but always expecting this team to do something miraculous and win. And then I dream about playing side-by-side with these guys…Ed the Mighty Helicopter Jones, throwing down break away dunks and high-fiving Timmy as I head back down court. After I dream of the game I dream of Jessica Alba…and Mouse…and Ducks…dressed in a nun's habit and wearing a bikini.
I wake up to a bouncing sound. I look out my window and down the street and realize some retarded fag kid is out on his basketball court pretending to be Kobe Bryant…I get up and put on my black sleeveless shirt with “Chopper” on the back. Game on!
My stomach hurts……..
Chopper Log: Spam Date April 6, 2010 – Greetings Brothers and Sisters of the mighty SPAM. I have to start this year’s SPAM pilgrimage post with a confession. I have sinned a mighty sin against the SPAM. I tried to forget what the SPAM has done for the members of SPAMnation in years’ past. I had begun to allow myself to be pulled into the belief that the SPAM wasn’t real. I watched as the Spurs struggled through a miserable regular season. I watched new players not meshing with the veterans. I watched Tim Duncan slow down after the all-star break. I watched Tony Parker struggle with foot injuries and go down with a broken hand. I saw Richard Jefferson play like he didn’t belong…like he was going through the motions and would never fit in with this team. I saw Manu looking old and frail, and a step slow, no leap, no explosion…I watched him become…I can’t even say without wincing…a jump shooter!! Super-Manu, tentative?!! I never thought I’d live to see the day! Then I listened as Gregg Popovich called Keith Bogans his cornerstone….and I shuddered…that is, if the definition of ‘shudder’ is crying hysterically and beating your head against the wall. I read everyone saying Pop is a horrible coach, that this team can’t win, and that the offseason moves were a huge mistake, and that the other teams had passed us by…and that the Spurs dynasty was no more. And I started to listen to these people…these uninspired SPAMless spirits….doubt filled me…I too began to believe we were done. I was devastated. Heartbroken, in fact. Nothing left to live for. Without SPAM, my life was over. SPAM was dead, and so was I.
So I packed up everything I’d purchased for the 2010 Pilgrimage: two pallets of SPAM, all of my SPAM attire, the All-SPAM diet plan and testicle cream (endorsed by Barry Bonds), my giant foam SPAM pimp hand, some plastic tubing and several gerbil cages, and a nun's habit and Santa Claus outfit and I threw them all in the trash. I put about 60 pounds of SPAM cans in each of the Hefty sacks I’d purchased and I placed them on the curb early on Monday about 4 weeks ago. Then I waited for the trash men to show up. Actually, I did more than wait. I hid behind the bushes along the front sidewalk of my house and I watched them pick up the fifteen 60 pound bags…and I laughed a hearty laugh as they struggled with the bags, and then, when I saw bags break and SPAM cans spilled all over the sidewalk I laughed even harder. In fact, I couldn’t contain my laughter from behind the bushes so I rolled out onto the sidewalk, and I laughed and rolled, laughed and rolled, laughed and rolled. And when the trash men realized I was laughing at them, and that I wasn’t the local retarded boy (Editor’s Note: I have been told that it is politically incorrect to use the word “retarded”. I apologize for any negative reference to the mentally challenged in this post. I, myself, however have been called “retarded” several times. My advice: never call anyone "retarded"...unless that person happens to be a Lakers fan) they grabbed the cans of SPAM from the broken bags and started throwing them at me…over and over…and they didn’t stop. SPAMdamn!!! It hurt…it really hurt, but I didn’t care. The hole in my heart was deeper and more painful than any pain these men could inflict. So I closed my eyes and waited…waited for end. The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was one of the trash men wearing a Lakers jersey and another in a Mavericks cap. “How SPAMfrickin’ ironic!” I thought. “SPAMMED to death…by a Laker and a Mavs fan no less!” “A perfect SPAMfreaking end!” I closed my eyes, and hoped the end would come quickly.
As the stoning…errr…SPAMMING, continued, I saw my real (non-Chopper Jones) life as a Spurs fan, flash before me………………….
…………………..I remembered the day in 3rd grade when I met my first Spurs player; George Karl showed up at my school and autographed a napkin for me as I ate a sandwich at lunch (it may have been a SPAM sandwich…I can’t remember). I handed the napkin back to him and asked if he could go ask George Gervin to sign it, too (true story…if you’re reading this, sorry George!) Then I moved on to recalling my 6th , 7th and 8th grade years and thought about the endless days I spent playing basketball with my buddies in the driveway of my friend’s house. We always had a Johnny Moore on the court, a Larry Kenon, a James Silas, of course the Iceman, and Edgar Jones (when he became a Spur in ’82), and there was some fag (Editors Note: Unfortunately “fag” was part of our vocabulary back then, so I’m going with it for theatrical purposes. I hold no ill will towards any man as it relates to his sexual orientation as long as he isn't a Lakers fan...and preferably likes women.) who played with us who always wanted to be Lew Alcindor. Actually I think he IS gay now (sorry for always calling you a Laker fag, Steve! I never thought it would stick!) I thought about all the times we’d go to the Hemisfair Arena and sit in $5 seats and cheer our Spurs and then we’d go home and re-enact the game we’d just watched. I remembered when the Spurs acquired Artis Gilmore and how I thought this was finally the team that would get over on the Lakers. I remembered the season with the A-Train where they started 27-22, but finished the season on a 26-7 run to win 53 games. That was the first time I saw the SPAM. Sadly, I can still see Artis trying to tip in a miss at the end of the playoff game when LA eliminated my Spurs yet again. Not quite enough SPAM…yet. I then remembered beating the crap out of Steve after that game.
I remembered my dad getting transferred out of state and how I was now forced to listen to games on a scratchy AM radio signal at night when the ionosphere would allow me to pickup WOAI between Mariachi music and evangelical radio station feeds from different parts of the country. I would read and absorb everything I could about the Spurs, memorizing box scores and still dreaming of being a player for them one day. When the Spurs had their drought years, I continued to cheer. I still believed that someday my loveable Spurs would win it all.
I then flashed to 1987 and how I’d been cheering for my Spurs for 11 years when HE became a Spur. The chosen one. The Neo. The Man. The Admiral. It would never be the same for San Antonio. It would never be the same for me. Suddenly the San Antonio Spurs were truly a force to be reckoned with. They were no longer the over-achieving ABA team trying to play with the big boys, they had arrived as a true NBA upcoming power. The franchise suddenly had a true superstar in every sense of the word. A freak of nature, an alien force. A living, breathing SPAMtopian if there’d ever been one. While his supporting cast was somewhat suspect, this unbelievable basketball god could single-handedly carry any four other players, men in drag, and practically any coach that didn’t chew on towels to 60-win seasons. Watching him made me believe that perhaps a championship banner would be hanging in the rafters in San Antonio…someday.
My memories shifted to 1991. The enemy power in the West was no longer the Lakers, but had become the Utah Jazz, Karl Malone and John Stockton. After those Showtime Lakers teams had their title runs there was now a new force in the conference that was just a little better than we were. They knew how to beat us. They were well coached. They were deeper than us. They were dirty freaking bastards…but they were good.
I continued to watch and cheer my Spurs, and at this point I had finished a masters degree and had started my career as a white collar desk jockey. My dreams of playing on the basketball court alongside the George Gervins of the world were shelved for more practical pursuits…but not in my mind. At night I would dream of fast break dunks down the lane, and finger rolls over outstretched defenders’ arms.
Then, in 1997, another miracle came along for my Spurs. The SPAM gods manipulated the draft lottery and Tim Duncan was the Spurs’ reward for their good fortune. Amazingly Duncan seemed to be an even more complete player than Mr. Robinson, and a perfect compliment to a franchise player who was still very capable of leading a team, but was ready to hand the franchise tag to someone he could trust to take over his spot. I watched in awe his rookie season as he displayed the footwork and post moves of a seasoned veteran. When Tim was drafted I figured he’d be an upgrade to Terry Cummings, but I had no idea how good he’d be. I particularly wanted to see how the rookie played against Karl “I’m a gun-toting, truck driving, redneck moron” Malone, my least favorite NBA player, and his pasty sidekick John Stockton. In his first game against Utah in November he had, 8 points and 13 rebounds. Game 2 against the Jazz that season: 9 points, 7 boards. Then…game three in February: 29 points and 15 rebounds…then in April: 34 points, 7 boards. Tim Duncan was putting his foot right on Karl Malone’s big booty. The rookie was not afraid. The rookie was owning not only Big Dumb Karl, but the rest of the league as well. A superstar was born. A superstar that knew SPAM.
Out of the blue....all of sudden it seemed, IT happened. In 1999 the planets aligned, the Universe poured forth its blessings and the Spurs won the NBA title. They recovered from a 6-8 start to put SPAM on full display going 31-5 after March 1st, and then continued to March through the post season at a 15-2 clip to win their first NBA title. The dynasty was born. SPAM was official. My life as a Spurs fan seemed complete. I was never happier than I was after game 5 against the Knicks. That moment ranks only below my son’s birth as the most happy day I’ve ever experienced. I can still remember what that feeling was like, basking in that glory, knowing the Spurs had finally climbed that mountain top….amazing!! A feeling that can never be repeated.
Like any fan, I came back wanting more the next season. But sadly I watched Tim go down with injury in 2000. There would be no repeat title. Even more displeasing was the fact that it was the LA Lakers and Shaq and Kobe that went on a 3 year run of titles…titles I thought my Spurs were worthy of winning. The Lakers?!! Why?!!! What did I do to deserve this?!!
In the fall of 2002 I discovered Spursreport.com. I created the user name “Edgar Jones” and was told I couldn’t have the same name as a real NBA player. So “Ed Helicopter Jones” I became. I was at home. I would get caught up reading the 50 page arguments between Marcus Bryant and Ghostwriter. I’d enjoy the posting brilliance that was Timvp. Another rookie on the site, Admiral had this amazing Spurs knowledge for a young kid…his love for the Spurs reminded me of, well, me. And then there was this guy named Mouse…the funniest homeless guy I’d ever encountered. And there were many, many more folks back then that I enjoyed getting to know. It was a whole new beginning for me. A whole new world in which to share my Spurs’ love. I was not a computer guy, or an internet person. I barely could use email, but I loved my newfound Spurs site.
That February (2003) the mood in Spurs internet universe had gotten downright nasty…three years without a title had created a lot of dissention in the Spurs forum. There were two rival factions warring over the Spurs and their plight. One group called for radical changes to the team and its roster. The other supported the coaching staff and the current personnel. Each side argued long and hard about the Spurs, but due to the team’s recent struggles and lack of recent post season success no one seemed to hold out a lot of hope about that team’s chances of unseating the reigning dynasty. A strange bit of déjà vu as it relates to the current state of Spur fandom.
That’s when it hit me. SPAM…..Spurs Peak after March. I recalled how it had first made itself evident that season with Gervin and Artis. I saw it clearly in 1999. Now I couldn’t believe it was gone. This 2002-2003 team was too good. Tim Duncan was too good. David Robinson was too good. He was retiring and he had earned the right to go out a champion. He deserved it. So I posted my first SPAM Pilgrimage thread predicting a strong March, April, May run and a second NBA title. People read it. It made sense to many. It followed the grand plan. It attempted to be funny. But it was also true. SPAMnation was born.
Oddly enough, the first SPAM Pilgrimage coincided with my foray into fatherhood. My child was born in 2003 and there were promotions in my workplace. 2003 was a pretty good year…a new baby, an NBA title for my favorite team, and some career advancement.
The next year we had SPAM Pilgrimage II, and then III, IV and V. These years included two more titles and always a strong end of season showing by our Spurs. Winning in the playoffs wasn’t a surprise, losing was. Post season success became an expectation…a requirement by the fans. During this amazing period for the Spurs I followed Timvp and Kori to their new website, Spurstalk, and took the annual SPAM Pilgrimage with me. Our numbers grew. The SPAM was clearly real and SPAMnation was out in full force. Sports writers around the world would document what those of us in SPAMnation had known for years…the Spurs Peak After March and carry that momentum into the post season every year. A force, those Spurs. You never want to play the Spurs in the post season because they are unafraid, they can beat anyone, anytime. This is the franchise everyone fears, that everyone wants to be. They are the Spurs and they are full of SPAM.
Soon before the ’06-’07 season someone very close to me passed away, and, similar to 2003, I just kind of knew that the Spurs would win the 2007 title. This person was a huge Spurs fan, and somehow I figured he now had the best seats in the house, watching the games that season and influencing the outcome however he could. I was oddly at peace throughout that ’07 playoffs, expecting victory, not wishing for it.
After that came SPAM Pilgrimage VI and VII and suddenly the luster had faded off the shiny blue can. In 2009 the Spurs ended SPAM Pilgrimage VII with a first round loss to the Mavericks….the SPAMdamn Mavericks!! I hate the Mavericks almost as much as I hate the Lakers…and that dumbass Karl Malone! And then the ’09-’10 season started so badly that I was fairly sure the whole idea of SPAM was lost. Our third straight year of disappointment. There’d be no peaking after March this year, right?!!......................
……………..and that brings me back to my sidewalk and the two trash men trying to kill me with my own cans of SPAM. I re-entered my magical world, my other reality…SPAMnation.
As I lay there…dying…my mind started to clear a little bit and I came out of my haze. My thoughts had moved on from the Spurs, and as per my custom I found myself dreaming about my special friend, Jessica Alba, wearing nothing but a nun’s habit and a small black bikini. We were on a beautiful tropical beach. Tiny wind-blown wisps of her beautiful blond hair sweep across her face...the pearl white beach sand stuck to her gorgeous toes. As usual she was licking my face. As usual I was dressed as Santa Claus. As usual she transformed into Mouse just when things started getting steamy.
SPAMdamnit!! WHY?!!! Startled, I opened my eyes. The trash men were gone. A few cans of SPAM lie on the sidewalk. I felt my head, my body, my balls (as per my custom). Everything felt about like it should. A few bruises and some internal bleeding, but nothing out of the ordinary for me. A typical Monday.
Sadly, I picked up the half dozen or so SPAM cans and went into the house.
I looked at the note pinned to the fridge. Yep, the wifey was out…again. Something about getting some detail work done on her chassis. I didn’t know she owned a car. She tends to go out a lot these days.
My stomach rumbled. I looked at the clock and apparently I’d been out cold on the sidewalk for awhile because it was supper time. It had been almost a year since I’d indulged in any SPAM, but here I sat, holding the slightly dented cans, a couple of them containing pieces of my scalp…or was that part of one of my testicles? It was hard to tell. Oh well, I peeled back the tin on one of the cans and slammed it down. Delicious!! I never get tired of SPAM!! Eagerly I open two more cans and devour them. I let the oil roll down my chin and marvel at the fact that each 12 oz can contains only 96 grams of fat and 4,740 mg of sodium and 1,080 calories. So, 288 grams of fat and 13,220 mg of sodium later I drift off to a SPAM induced slumber while gripping my chest as it beats an uneasy rhythmic beat…as per my custom. RATT A TAT….RATT A TAT TAT TAT….RATA TATTA TATTA RATTA ratta tatta rat tat ta ta RATATATATTTA…….and off I went.
Four hours later I’m awakened by a frightening hum. The SPAM??? No, my stomach. What the??!!!! SPAM never makes me sick! I love the SPAM. How could this be??? But it’s definitely my stomach making the noise I hear.
I run to the toilet. My forehead is sweating. Something has grown inside of me and needs to come out. (Editors’ Note: Mrs. Chopper says that every time I compare child birth to launching an enormous sausage of poop that I’m offensive to everything that is woman. After making several such jokes with friends and getting reprimand after reprimand I promised her and her girlfriends a couple of years ago I would never make such callous jokes again.) So, anyway, I find that my SPAMpoo contractions are only seconds apart and that I have to get to the white porcellin gurney. I put my feet in the stirrups and assume the birth position…I’m sweating. I’m fairly sure I’m fully dilated, but I’m afraid to check. Then out it comes without warning…I scream…I realize in that moment I should have opted for the episiotomy…it’s a beast…a swirly, giant, stinky disgusting beast of a poop child.
Like a proud papa I stare in at the toilet, admiring my creation. This lasts for several minutes, as per my custom.
When the time feels right, I pull out the paper blanket roll, wipe off the afterbirth and cover my beautiful, beastly SPAMpoo creation and prepare to launch him to freedom. I decide to name him Billy, and wish him well as I pull the release handle on the nursery wall.
Just then I hear it….a gurgle…a whimper…something calling out from the bowl.
What in the name of SPAM is going on?!! I look at the toilet, and am certain my eyes are deceiving me, but no! There it is, standing there, my SPAMpoo…looking at me, disgusted, disgusting, angry, & upset.
All I could think in that moment is that this obviously is a cheap rip-off and clear cut copyright infringement from the South Park series.
“What in the name of SPAM are you?!!!” I shout out, certain I’d taken one too many SPAM cans off my head that previous morning.
“Spurs pppeesk arrrtgdnndd manndaaauuu….prrerrhppssss ouurrrr onnnnnnnllyy pllllofffffff shhotttttttttttt.”
“I don’t speak crap!” At that moment I have an idea…. “Wait, let me pull out my Ducks / Poland / ThisPego translator!”
Quickly I run to the drawer and pull out my Ducks translator, aka a converted Mattel See and Say toy.
“Say it again!” I plead and I pull the string on the translator and watch the farmer spin around….
“Spurs Peak Around Manu….Perhaps Our Only Playoff
Shot”
…and then my beautiful creation stood on the edge of the bowl and waved to me. I waved back with a little tear in my eye. Then he dove into the still swirling bowl and headed towards Dallas, Texas.
“SPAMmen….I think” and “Goodbye, son!” was all I could say.
Then I contemplated the message I’d just received:
“SPAM POOPS…interesting. Spurs Peak Around Manu…Perhaps Our Only Playoff Shot.”
Not exactly the usual mode for the SPAM to deliver a message, in fact it's downright crappy (pardon the pun) but I’ll take it. It’s more hope for the season than I’ve had all year. I bask in the experience I just had. I scratch my balls for ten, fifteen minutes as per my custom. I wander back to my bedroom, put my head on my pillow, and fall into a deep, peaceful slumber.
I have vivid dreams that night. I see the big three playing healthy for the first time in years. I see the Mavs, Jazz and Lakers falling to the Spurs as they shock the world and reach the Finals for a fifth time. I see Manu playing this playoffs at the all-world level he’s capable of, with Tim and Tony both having a great post season as well. I see myself cheering for this team just as I have for almost 35 years, win or lose like a true fan should, but always expecting this team to do something miraculous and win. And then I dream about playing side-by-side with these guys…Ed the Mighty Helicopter Jones, throwing down break away dunks and high-fiving Timmy as I head back down court. After I dream of the game I dream of Jessica Alba…and Mouse…and Ducks…dressed in a nun's habit and wearing a bikini.
I wake up to a bouncing sound. I look out my window and down the street and realize some retarded fag kid is out on his basketball court pretending to be Kobe Bryant…I get up and put on my black sleeveless shirt with “Chopper” on the back. Game on!
My stomach hurts……..