When I watch Ersan Ilyasova find success with the Pistons, I know I should be happy. My brain, proud bastion of logic and rationality, tells me this. I should be happy for his team, for all fans of good-quality NBA basketball, and, most importantly, for him. Instead, I feel nothing.
When Ersan left for Detroit, something else left with him: my heart. The place in me where it once resided is now nothing but a cavernous grey emptiness, neither receiving nor emitting positive feelings.
I watch him hit triples, just as he did in Milwaukee, with that little unnecessary fade. I remember how much fun I had watching him do that, even when he’d miss, missing more and more as the years went on. My eyes still work perfectly. I know, objectively, that there is no difference between the Ersan of Milwaukee and the Ersan of Detroit. I know this.
So why can’t I be happy?