So if you hadn't noticed from my delicious mugshot, I have the Kojak thing going up top. Smooth as a baby's bum. I have no more bad hair days--or good ones, for that matter--but the tradeoff is that I always seem to wind up with a chest cold every year about this time, mostly because I'm not bright enough to check the weather before I venture outside. Right now I sound like the illegitimate love child of Tom Waits and Phyllis Diller.
But it's also the season of big mistakes for fantasy hoopheads, who frantically fire bottom-roster players to and from the waiver wire in the first month of the season in an effort to scoop up the last remaining nuggets--though not necessarily Nuggets--and round out a supergroup-style lineup as loaded as Audioslave (or at least the Damn Yankees).
I'm normally hyper-conscious of the second problem, but last year I added and dumped then-Clipper Bobby Simmons to one of my team's in the course of a week. I fell in love, suffered through the only game in which Simmons didn't post 16 points, eight rebounds, a couple of steals and exhibit a deft all-around shooting touch, then dropped him like a bad habit. I already had moved on to Eddie Griffin or Gordan Giricek or some other blunder too painful to remember. I blame the unhealthy amount of Nyquil I was ingesting at the time.