Point-Four

The Tragedy of Point-Four
Based on a Poem by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon an evening boring, as I over stats was poring
From many quick-forgotten games and Jazz boxscores
Casually clicking, website-searching, I found my stomach sharply lurching,
A message board my eyes besmirching, besmirching with absurdities ne’er seen before
“Just some Jazz fans,” I muttered, “with tales of long past lore—
Only this and nothing more.”

But as I read from post to post, my heart grew dim, my brain engrossed
With hearty cheers and happy boasts for Derek Fisher whom they all adore!
“Playoffs,” claimed one, enthusiastic, “are where Fisher shines fantastic,
Though regular season might be spastic, come clutch-time he can’t fail to score.”
I read the final statement, mouth agape, then I swore.
Quoth the Jazz fan, “Play Point-Four!”

Feeling stunned and disbelieving, I thought, “The stats might be deceiving,
All this praise he is receiving must be from some oft-neglected source.”
But as the playoff stats I scanned, I witnessed no improvement grand
In fact, I found them rather bland, and they left me feeling fairly sore.
“Jazz fans bought in to Derek Fisher’s folklore.”
This I thought and nothing more.

And there I sat, still perusing, Fisher’s stats my thoughts confusing,
As finally, my temper losing, I succumbed to anti-Fish rancor.
“For such a vet,” I flatly stated, “I would hardly be elated
With a career dedicated to shooting a percent of ten times four.
No wonder Chris Mullins showed him the door.
In conclusion, bench Point-Four.”

Minutes passed and then a torrent, posters calling me abhorrent
My opinions did not warrant a response, my stats ignored.
“In the clutch, Fish always comes through, resplendent in the powder blue,
And leads the team, does Number 2, through many a dark and dreadful storm.
In the playoffs, we need him all the more.”
Typed the Jazz fans, “Play Point-Four!”

The days passed, turned into weeks, complete with Utah losing streaks,
The playoffs that the Jazz did seek, were in hand, more games in store.
Coach Sloan gazed out, steely-eyed, upon his team, and then relied
On Derek Fisher, Brewer denied the chance to defend T-Mac on the court.
“We can’t lose to Houston with Fisher on the floor!”
Crowed the Jazz fans, “Play Point-Four!”

The Jazz fans’ wish? Quickly granted, and quickly too the fans recanted
As Fisher’s feet were firmly planted, planted steadfast, his defense surpassing poor.
T-Mac blew by, the left or right with Fisher’s play an unholy blight
And offense as well a similar sight as he missed lay-ups on the open floor.
Jazz fans all their early hopes foreswore.
To Sloan they shouted, “Bench Point-Four!”

Mirabile dictu! Victory gained! And Jazz fans traded expressions pained
For joy, and not a soul refrained from lavishing praises on the team galore.
But Fisher left the second series, leaving fans with several theories
For why a team that once seemed dreary destroyed a rival feared before
Could it be Fish lacked the proper repertoire?
The Jazz fans, fickle, cried, “Not Point-Four!”

But in Game Two, to Fisher’s glee, he hit an open corner three
And what was this? Why, could it be? Could the fans his name restore?
As his shots grew from one to many, fans suggested (not so gently)
Fisher haters evidently missed the glory of our great savior!
“Fisher is a valuable piece of this young team’s core!
Derek Fisher, forevermore!”

Save storybooks and fairytales, nothing closes “all ends well”
As Fish hammered the final nail into the coffin of his own support.
Shot after shot he threw awry; the Spurs, well-pleased, gave their reply
With win after win, despite the tries of the Jazz before the series was o’er.
But o’er it was, with a whimper, not a roar.
Quoth the Jazz fans, “Don’t blame Point Four!”

And here am I, alone and weeping, fatigued, exhausted, almost sleeping,
When I feel a presence creeping, creeping through my open door.
I spin and stare, and then stifle a girly scream at the arrival
Of a being, some survival of a darker time in days of yore.
There is a Raven standing on my apartment floor.
It stares silent, nothing more.

“Why come you?” I shriek whilst crawling, “Why at my place do you come calling?”
Is it because I find appalling Fisher’s play, which I deplore?”
“Tell me now, you loathsome creature! Is it in this poem I feature
Weak slant rhyme and broken meter that draws your ire and now my home you explore?”
The raven faces me, a chilling look ne’er seen before.
Quoth the Raven, “Harpring sucks.”