Sacrebleu shaka laka

Today, instead of my normal Friday morning routine of reading picture books to 5 year olds in an elementary school library (yes it’s my job), I, Daniel Woytek, am presenting my second humble guest post for the New Enthusiast. Please enjoy!

Much has been written on this weblog about a particular rookie from Old Europe who plays basketball for the Portland Trail Blazers. Now I do not want to alienate the national readership of this website and ardent Fernandezophiles, but there happens to be another continental Blazer rookie who deserves mention by Enthusiasts of all kinds for a particular skill he has exhibited during his first year in the Association. Unlikely starter and long, small forward Nicolas Batum has given Blazers fans and NBA fans that pay way too close attention, demonstrations during the season of his uncanny ability to block transition layups.

This very particular skill has also garnered him comparison to Detroit Piston, NBA Champion, All-Defensive Teamer, U.S. National Teamer/Gold Medalist and former Compton resident, Tayshaun Prince. I list Prince’s many accomplishments in part because I am one of those who feels that Batum has a long way to go to deserve such comparisons in relation to his overall game.

This having been written, there was a particular incident in the March 11th matchup between Portland and Dallas when Nicolas Batum did what he does. He blocked a transition layup attempt by Antoine Wright. As soon as I saw the play on my television (Sorry, no video avail.) it brought to mind a certain west coast transplant from Philadelphia (no not Ross McSweeney). Well, the proper synapses fired in my brain and I uttered to myself, “That’s the French Prince”. So henceforth when Nic Batum stretches his long arm after having run the length of the court to swat a would be score away from the basketball goal I will bellow with unburdened enthusiasm, “That there was the French Prince”.


Selected Aphorisms #39

The thirty-ninth installment in our occasionally soused new series.

Whenever I pour myself a scotch drink, I make a point of announcing – to no one, in particular – “Daddy needs his medicine.” That I have sired no actual children is of little consequence – the truth of my declaration remains unassailable.


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