Speed burns bright with yellow propensity,
Transition taking its place above all.
Searing with malicious intensity,
Frightening championship rings to fall.
Undermining a foe's integrity,
Opportunities taken for granted.
A gift that lasts for all eternity,
Not; Ages boundlessness a mirage planted.
Make the most of a kindred's unique skill,
For perpetual decline is the fad.
Life lest forgiving to a soundless shrill,
Slaughtering the aptitude one once had.
Ah, speed, perfect for a mid winter's romp,
Splendid way to perform your summer pomp.

The flop - Basketball


Rivers of deceit tumbling a slew, breath's freshness beaten a foul

Merchants muscle alienating the masses and swelling a revolt

Saints past and present, honest as the day, they avow

One's frippery did run amok, the devil doth bolt

A high flyer commissions the finest basket cases from ball to high court

Not one exempt, a king for five thousand, from stallion to colt

Birds of a feather, a mimic keen to be brought

Accusations of the devious afloat, miraculous escapades bring one's vault

Tall tales not, claimants of a faithful good, summoning the most earnest cause

Baying monsters perceived, unbelieving, mutinous for the blood of the draw

High stakes, a three pronged beast, the taker of life's merriment without pause

Outnumbered, one fang on a rickety pretence, for two's a public sentiment

From the newel of hell, the regal much immersed in a quagmire of desolation

For it is all much of a flop

When your foe's down, kick them, then kick them again. And then some. As they say, don't give a sucker a break.

You never know when that sucker's complexion will countenance change and come back to bite you. It could be when it is least expected. Like when a team is 3-1 down in the opening round of a playoff series, looking for all money like they have entered into an eternal slumber.

Listless and lifeless your opposition are on the ropes, and you cruise through an unbeaten three match streak. Life's a peach, you've been knocking down three pointers at will, pulling off some of the most outrageous shots seen for many a year. Super confident, you turn up to Denver's mile high den sub-consciously not ready to play in the fifth match of the series, and that sucker bites you.
As Golden State found out to their detriment. It appeared to slip their mind that Denver finished third in the regular season for a reason. Something to do with being a quality team, one suspects.

From coast to coast, the Nuggets were the team with the most. 107-100, it wasn't really that close.

Up fourteen by the end of the first quarter, the signs were ominous for Golden State. Everything was falling from the tip-off . . . to the home side. Do or die, there was but no choice to find their inner mongrel and fight for their play-off lives. Amazing what such motivation does for one. That fourteen point lead was extended to twenty by half- time.

Golden State were in dire straits. Which came as no surprise when Stephen Curry could manage a paltry three field-goals from his first nine attempts. In the end he garnered fifteen points for the night, twelve short of his average for the previous four matches. Of those 15, only one was from his specialty, three point land.

Harrison Barnes, in his rookie season, topped the scoring for GS with twenty-three points. Perhaps desperate for any opportunity to impress, motivation was still high on his part and more so than many of his more illustrious teammates. Sure, no player can be expected to be at their best for every match of their career. But a play-off game and the chance to put the final nail in the coffin of Denver? You would think that would inspire.

For Denver the stats sheet said it all. Rebounds bounded their way 15-9 and steals 12-5. Indicators, maybe, of a team fighting for their lives. If Golden State didn't want the ball, they sure did. Especially Andre Iguogala who took it upon himself to score a game high twenty-five points and procure himself twelve rebounds and seven assists.

Twelve steals, at least twenty-four points, most of which came through superior desire on Denver's part, not to mention superb transition. It certainly kept a raucous crowd in the equation. And Golden State out of the game.

Some desperation on the part of the visitors and a goodly proportion of those twelve steals could have been prevented. That's a couple of dozen points, and they only lost by seven.

Ah well, there is always another two matches to clinch the series with. Never mind that Denver have now gathered significant momentum.

Seems to keep coming back to that underlying theme, doesn't it. Couldn't possibly think what it is.

The Defender

A wicked wind in waiting, calmness nestled within sinister intentions, hiding in casings of maligment terror, ready to propose chilling consequences

Defensively menacing to the last, strong in the tackle, opposition all at sea leaving vistas of unchained calamities

Pain a friend, often a foe, never a stranger. Always to the bone, maybe a rattle to soon, no longer entrapped within summer's cocoon



A delicate mind hovering on the precipice, the tenets of desire elongated to breaking point, one breathe too many

Mayhem unearthed as the parasites of fear decay a foreboding mind, urgings of serene waters ignored, the fin of offense's head covered in coatings of blue

Floating endlessly against the tide, silently fearing an incoming wave, internal hope flickering, heaven's gatekeeper is but a dream



Halted in the tracks of attack the deadly assassin of despair hit upon a blackened mind, snaking its way into the benign, tumour hovering over a fading force

Searing heat tarnished a talented vista, scorching the script of the righteous, daring another invasion, it was not to be

Soreness prevailed, the ice of defeat vibrating through the veins of hope, releasing aches brought to a head, wounds singing a salty anthem


A fading hope, one man's dream, one team's dream, all for one, one for all, he tried, they tried, fate conspired

One man's dream, one team's dream, all for one, one for all, he tried, they tried, disposition's sunrise bloomed vividly for the chosen few

Only one was to be, there was no free key, defiance met turf's acquaintance, challenge the defender at your peril.

Stephen Curry, what a show-off.

We can all see how good you are . . . there is no need to prove anything to anyone. All that fancy stuff - come on, how about acting like everyone else and sticking with the conventional. Surely this isn’t your notion of normality.

Oh, it is. Well, all right then, you must be the real deal and no show-off. Keep this kind of form up and there will be no doubters as to whether you are worth every cent of that four year, twelve million dollar contract.

Making that kind of money, many would expect the generating of extravagant stats each and every game.

That you did here was there for all to see. Outrageous three pointers, lay-ups with the baffling speed that belies an adequate 6ft3” 180 pound frame, free-throws, field goals galore and there was even time to set up your Golden state teammates for shots with your wickedly surreal match vision. Fifty-one percent of Golden State’s points came from the deadly anarchy of your shooting arm.

Fifty-four points, keep this up and you will soon enter Basketball folklore. Already a season best for any NBA player and following a thirty-eight point effort the night before this stuff will soon become the new habitat for you. In a losing side you were the core. At one time you had shot fourteen out of fifteen from the far flung reaches of your talent’s capabilities in three-point land. All this without the help of All-Star David Lee, through suspension, you could not have done anymore.

In the end a young smallish team could not beat the law in the form of the New York Knicks. 109-105 and Golden State were out-sized. Still, a mighty effort it was from each and all. For all the world it looked like a match-up between David and Goliath, such was the size difference between the two sides. By rights it should have been a cake walk for the Knicks.

With Golden State down by fourteen and achieving a scintilla of success mid way through the first quarter, with you shooting only two from six three-pointers, you upped the ante and traversed the ravine of boulder like obstacles standing in the way.

Up against the likes of Carmelo Anthony and Tyson Chandler, not the best of the best, but hey, they are not too far away, you treated the talented duos reputations with disdain. Or then again maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe it was the challenge of taking on two stars of the game and beating them that elevated you to the imposing peaks of the otherworldly. Anything they can do, you can outdo. That you did. A smile on the dial, oh what fun, it was all a bit of a Lear, for you didn’t care you had no fear.

Why worry when you and your mates are fighting above your weight? Relax, go out and rock everyone’s world. You did. Forty-eight minutes of game time, you were out on your feet with five minutes to go. You bravely fought on, routinely coming up with the most outlandish of plays. Tired legs yet a mind so straight that keeps on keeping on, you’re a good one.

Not only was this an epic individual performance but appreciative teammates came along for the ride. They exalted their performances on the back of a truly inspirational individual effort. In the end it wasn’t quite enough, but it was plenty mesmerising. Many a fan is on their way.

Such a young team with a future laden with potential success, it may take a couple of years no less. The heat is slowly but surely building, as is your individual performance.

You keep this up and none of us will be able to tell whether you’re showing off or not.

Lebron James form is so hot even fire itself gives him a wide berth.

Unlike fire deprived of oxygen, his form threatens to burn for many a decade. His foe can only stand the heat for so long. Eventually that furnace suffocates the opposition of their ability to counter his genius.

His is a brightly oiled vista of star spangled heavenly endeavours, culminating in a virtual feeding frenzy of elongated success, stretching the pre-conceived boundaries as to what his already prodigious bent could achieve. Said abilities were always there, perhaps not quite as refined as they are in the now, but still more than enough for his coaches to work with. More importantly, there is enough for the big man to improve on as he puts in all the extras in his own time. After all, desire comes from the depths of one’s mind. With James that mind is an oasis of well lubricated acuteness, as is his Basketball talent.

Since the small forward’s debut back in what seems like the distant past of 2006, the 6ft8” James’ statistics have improved with each passing season. Free-throws, rebounds, assists per game, field goals and shots from afar; every season he keeps expanding. Not for James to stagnate. He knows the way forward to greatness is to keep the progress in the positive. Nor is he one to concern himself as to what others think of him.

Three years ago he was ridiculed for announcing to the world that, along with Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh, he was going to decimate all before him for many a year to come. They signed with the Heat. In their minds a dynasty was on the verge of animation. The future foresaw a better countenance for him than the one he had in Cleveland. A few fans were, to put it mildly, disappointed that he chose to leave. But that is bye the by, I guess. It was onwards and upwards. There was to be a change in fortune. Indeed, he is one of the rare to prosper having had their form go south. Miami it was for the foreseeable future. Sun, surf and those few titles he was so confident of attaining beckoned.

Aiming for the stars and all that, it was going to be more than just a few. The Lebron James show was due to begin.

Now there is a risk that this outlandish prophecy could occur.

2012 came and went; he won an NBA championship ring. He finally did it. Eight seasons since his rookie year – it is here. It didn’t sink in immediately but, sure enough, it did eventually.

“Oh my God, I think it just hit me, I'm a CHAMPION, I’m a CHAMPION”. So said LBJ, on his twitter account, the day after. Now he knows what it feels like, you suspect he wants more.

And here is the chance to finally deliver on that enormous potential that he was lucky enough to be born with. Sure, there are not going to be eight NBA titles in a row like the great Celtics era of the 1960’s, what with the salary cap and all, but another few appear to be well within his grasp. It won’t be easy, but he has come to realise that. This, in part, is what makes multiple titles more realistic. He discovered that one didn’t come easy, and knowing now how hard it is to attain the heights of the heavens, he has taken to the current season with a verve of one who knows what fruits are at the end of the ladder of hard work.

Twenty-eight, it took him awhile, but that wait never stopped him. He kept rising, never knowing when the air would become too rarefied for his abilities. Soon the talisman of all talismens will be there. You know, the heavens - that abode made for you, where the sky is blue, the birds flew and the pantheon of stars awaits you.

Now he is the biggest of fish in the biggest of seas, without a care in the world such does his talent run free, addicted to the pursuit of excellence, many a enemy have attempted to stymie.

Not even Kevin Durant could stop the dream wrecking machine, the same Kevin Durant who has sparked quite the inferno himself in 2013. Along with James, he could keep fire-fighters in business, the Country wide. I mean, if it wasn’t for the presence of LBJ, Durant would be a shoo in for MVP. Instead his chances have been assassinated by LBJ’s continued quest for improvement. The NBA’s second best player has been made to look like a weekend hack. They were battering away at each other to gain the title of best in the NBA. Now James has won by a knockout and is the king. I suppose there is a reason that he is nicknamed King James, after all. And to think they said all those sightings were bogus.

He reigns supreme as the scarp of his talent loomed large over his foes receding hopes of success, shadowing their every move as the millstone of sobriety lowered its bow to the tentacles of despair, swimming for an eternity into a tsunami of forlorn hope.

That shadow only grows with time; darkening the air for all that cross that path, except, of course, LeBron James and his equally dedicated teammates.

Not all that many years ago a new model was released into the tennis world. It was an original, one of a kind. Shots galore emanated from its pores. Strong off either wing, the results could be devastating.

Capable of mountainous snow filled highs, it also came with the lows of the dales.

This model, the Djockovic mark1, sparkled on the outside. Flash it was, though some would suggest that, at times, he was nothing more than over-paid primadonna; strutting, preening, swaggering and prancing to the beat of an over-rated drum, unable to do the dance.

You see, the problem was that this particular model came with optional extras – and not necessarily the good kind. There were imitations of other players. This may be amusing to the fans but it is not exactly the way to endear oneself to your peers. Often it appeared that it could not last the distance physically, either. Oh, and those breakdowns (injuries) that happened along at the most inopportune of moments. Usually when he was losing, it has to be said. Mental toughness had not yet struck up a lasting friendship with the man from Serbia.

It turns out that even though bones may not be malleable, a foe’s will can be manipulated to bend.

Unfortunately for Novak Djockovic it was his will that was contorted with monotonous regularity. At the tender age of twenty he had yet to truly find his rightful existence. Such was the psyche of his vexing vanity vainly attempting to validate its various visages as the vague valedictorian in him verified venomous volumes of visceral vitality that could no longer be sustained.

Never mind that this model had won its first grand slam title in 2008 at the Australian Open. It was to be another three years before Slam number two was to countenance more than a horizon.

It was not generating the results that had been hoped for.

Something had to give - and it did. So it was back to the garage and an overhaul while the potential superstar was still young enough to rotate his fortunes to the good.

Come the beginning of 2011 and the Djockovic mark2 was launched. Now this was a model that wasn’t just a veneer of showy one-upmanship. It was to contain much more in the way of the necessary substance required to be a championship contender on a regular basis.

Gone was the fair weather mind of the mark1. The icy winds of his now hardened mind were furnished with the rigid decor of steel readying itself to send a wintery blast in the direction of yet another unsuspecting foe. No longer was he the yellow belly of days rendered obsolete, ready to concede defeat at the slightest hint of tough times ahead. Indeed, his vast range of talents throttled their way up the ramp of prosperity, veering towards the likeliest of other-worldly attacking displays, setting up camp at the utopia of high end performance and leaving his opponents damp from their stay at the coalface of tyrannical hardship without the lamp of hope to light up the dimmest of roads ahead.

This was much to the dismay of many an opposition like Andy Murray.

And ask Andy, he’ll tell you of the effectiveness of the Djockovic model. He was the one, at the recent Australian Open Final, going hammer and tong at the reigning champ.

No matter how hard or how delicately he struck his shots, the Djockovic would out hit and out finesse him right back.

With a memorandum of nonchalant negligence neatly heralding in a sinisterly smelling smorgasbord of fiendishly fickle dalliances, daring one frozen defender to double his efforts from afar, this attacking perpetrator of doom and gloom went about his business busily busting barricades of defence to smithereens as he smashed his way to yet another smothering victory.

Eventually, Murray’s slathering slant of defence shivered in its slivering shell of slanderous shelter sharing not so slight melodramatic masses of fluctuating fortunes that the arguably fermented fervour of a cascading concourse careering headlong his way, with yet another mercilessly cruel wall of deceit, could not be starved off.

And by the end of the final, Murray was as far from a win as he had ever been.

That is the thing with Djockovic. You can match him for two and a half sets, but such is the ferocity, not to mention his relentlessness, that anyone brave enough to challenge the champ is eventually worn down mentally. For his game often appears to be one rocket propelled missile after another, each weapon seemingly content in the knowledge that widespread destruction will encompass his foes hopes of success in a darkened capsule of despair.

Djockovic at his best was simply too good for the rest.

It turns out that his bumper year of 2011 was no mirage. This time the makers had come up with more than just a few fancy mod cons in the form of superlative ground strokes to be hauled out every so often. They had made the complete model: brilliant shots, superb fitness, and maturity mixed with an unbeatable brand of mental toughness. This all adds up to one of the most reliable ever seen on the market.

Three years, three Australian titles in a row, that long walk down the sanctified corridor of champions to centre court, and he is in the process of transcending all before.

What is truly frightening is the thought of a Djockovic mark3.