Kobestoppers Inaugural Address

Welcome to Kobestoppers.blogspot.com. You are lucky enough to have stumbled on the mecca for all things Blazer-related, as well as those things which stop Kobe. These are the good things in life, folks.

So without further ado, we present a short piece about us, the authors. Mike was nice enough to gather his thoughts about me, and I did the same. Here goes:


Joe

How can one describe Joe Jackson using only the written word? You can’t. Believe me. I would know. It’s the impossible dream.

To pull it off would be the equivalent of Tiger sinking 18 straight hole-in-ones in a single round – or, for lack of a more practical metaphor, John Daly hitting all 18 fairways in a single round.

So instead of providing you all with an inevitably inadequate summarization of the man most people are now simply referring to as “New Jesus,” I will instead present to you the first word that pops into my head when I think his name:

Loyalty.

Joe has been a Blazers fan since he was in the womb. I remember back in second grade we used to pretend to be NBA players during recess pickup games. (If you didn’t do this, then I don’t know what to tell you. I probably averaged 25 and 15 simply because I believed I was Terry Porter at the time. Go try this out right now. No, I don’t care that you’re an “adult” now. Go.) Now on occasion, I would drift away from the “approved” roster and play as Michael Jordan or Penny Hardaway or some other non-Trailblazer. But Joe? I can’t ever remember him playing as anybody but Clyde Drexler.

It had to be boring. It had to be. Do you remember what you were like in second grade? I know I changed my mind a half dozen times every morning just trying to pick out my cereal. For an 8 year-old to show that type of discipline and allegiance toward his team, he deserves some type of award or medal or something.

Personally, I’d build him a marble statue consisting of an enormous pyramid of chiseled stone basketballs. Atop the structure would sit a small, Aryan boy (wearing no. 22, of course) gliding toward a 6-foot hoop with one arm extended and his heels glued to his butt. Inscribed on the statue’s bronze faceplate would be only the words “Tiny Glide.”



He’s also a Bills fan. Now, if you’re reading this blog, then you’re most likely a Blazers nut and are therefore well schooled in both short and long-term Blazers history, so we don’t need to delve into the various tragedies inflicted upon the franchise since 1977. But if you don’t know the history of the Buffalo Bills, that is one sad story, partner. And yet every year, Joe breaks out the blue and red and cheers that crappy team to a 5-11 record as he gazes fondly at his Thurman Thomas poster. Scott Norwood, I hope you’re reading this. You’re responsible for at least 70 percent of the tears cried by Joe in his lifetime. Are you happy? Did missing that field goal make you feel like a man? Did it? You should be ashamed of yourself.

The bottom line is this: every word that this sweet man utters is sports law. He’s been around the block, and he’s taken his fair share of licks. He knows what he’s talking about. Joe Jackson is not your average sports fan, okay? He’s, like, the Keanu Reeves of sports fans.


Mike

How can one describe Mike Whitman using only the written word? You can’t. Believe me. I would know. It’s the impossible nightmare.

To pull it off would be the equivalent of Joey Harrington completing five consecutive passes culminating in a game-winning touchdown on national television. Or, if you prefer, completing the Kessel Run in under 12 parsecs.

Rather than face the nauseating task of describing this wad of abominable filth, let me define him through the one overarching character trait, both good and bad, which Mike possesses in droves:

Passion.

As the Blazers rise and fall, so do Mike’s emotions, with all the force of the lines on Dick Cheney’s EKG. After a hard-fought Blazers loss, you will likely find Mike huddled in a corner, chain-smoking cigarettes and sobbing quietly into the sleeve of his four-sizes-too-small 1993 Blazers jacket. A blowout win? You’ll find him prancing in his jacket, chain-smoking cigarettes and loudly proclaiming his (non-platonic) love for Brandon Roy. A nail-biting, come-from-behind victory? He’ll probably be at the store buying more cigarettes.

The point is, Mike cares about this team so much. Too much. In fact, kind of disturbingly much. If I was Brandon, I would be terrified of waking up slowly to the hint of tobacco in the air, and turning to see Mike at the window, gazing lovingly at him. You don’t WANT to know what he’d do to Rudy.

As a child, Mike’s sports psyche was tragically crippled in a few ways. First, he grew up a 49ers fan. “Huh?” You might say, “Weren’t they good during the late '80s and early '90s? Haven’t they won three Super bowls in Mike’s lifetime? Didn’t they employ two of the greatest quarterbacks in NFL history during this time?” Well, yes, yes, and yes. Unfortunately for Mike (and, thus, for me and all of you), this has poisoned his mind. While my fandom has remained pure and championship-free, Mike’s has been marked by multiple instances in which his team has been “successful” and not “tragically failure-prone.” This has led to unreasonably high expectations and the resultant joy/sorrow of trying to achieve them.

Mike is like Plaxico. The first three (four, five?) times he slipped that pistol into his sweatpants and hit the club, it was great! He tossed back some shots, had a Red Bull/vodka or two, and spent the night grinding his piece into some nappy-headed ho’s backside. But it was only a matter of time until things went horribly wrong, and he’s lucky it wasn’t worse. Next time it could be little Plax on the wrong end of that gun.

The point of the story is this: Mike loves the Blazers. He loves them completely, unequivocally, and without reason. He loves them when they walk through an airport metal detector with a dank ounce wrapped in tin foil and shoved in their crotch. He loves them when they run an underground dog-fighting ring (Sorry Mike Vick, we did it first!). But most importantly, he loves them now. THIS team, RIGHT now.

And for good reason.