I am a poet. In that fact lies a sad smile today that may never leave.

Mamba Day. The poetic culmination of a 20 year career that has shown us some of the best basketball ever assembled inside of one man’s body. 5, count them, 5 chips. Not 6, but who cares other than those that don’t? 3 with Shaq and the 2 nobody thought he would get.

This may very be the last time we witness this kind of greatness wrapped in this kind of language. Sure, I love Chef Curry too and even had his Davidson squad in my final four bracket that year but when you look around the league who is the next version of Kobe Bean Bryant? Who has the evil athleticism, unfriendly candor, and the balls to for however long it takes chase after, and almost catch, the immortal that is MJ? Who will drop 81 AND win? Who will pump fake a defender three times from the 3pt line then rise up and hit a near impossible shot? I don’t see it. I don’t see anyone.

For those reasons I am sad. But I smile that I even know to be so.

Curtis L. Hill Jr.
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