In a previous life, most of my basketball identity was defined by my never-ending hype for Gary Harris. During that time, which seems so long ago, the hashtag #hypedforgaryharris was not only commonly used on my various social media profiles (to the point where I set up a hotkey on my keyboard to type it instantly whenever I needed it), but it was also a personal philosophy which guided all my actions.
Over time, hype for Gary Harris diminished as he experienced an inexplicable regression in his offensive skillset. As Nikola Jokic and Jamal Murray took more and more of the scoring load, Harris regressed into a defensive specialist who shied away from his previous scoring-related responsibilities. It was sad, but I eventually moved on, and I directed my hype to other players. The #hypedforgaryharris hashtag fell into disuse.
Now, that old flame has rekindled in my soul. As of yet, it is nary but a flicker, but even the greatest amount of hype must necessarily start with a small hype-spark. This game is that cherished spark of hype. I am feeling things I thought I had forgotten how to feel. The pangs in my chest, the pain radiating down my arms, the shortness of breath, the lightheadedness – these all might seem like classic symptoms of a heart attack, but to me they are just symptoms of hype for a player who, after all this time, remains off the radar of all but the most knowledgeable of fans.
Besides, it if was a heart attack, which it isn’t, I’ve got my kitty Japurri Purrker trained to alert authorities by way of an illicitly-placed beacon light on top of my apartment complex that can flash morse code signals to any and all observers. The morse code for “DTB is having a heart attack send paramedics (but only cute girl paramedics)” is easily parsed by even the most basic simpleton.
#hypeforgaryharris is alive again, folks, and it will stay alive until two days from now when he drops 3/1/1 and 0 steals in 25 minutes in game seven.