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NEW DODGERS This should be another record-breaking year for the Dodgers, all right. Your cover line about Kirk Gibson, " L.A.'s Big Hit," should actually have read, " L.A.'s Big Miss." Gibson is the most overrated player in either league. The shot on page 33 of him misplaying a fly ball is most appropriate. Your photographer might have been a victim of sunstroke had he waited for Gibson to catch one. No, there probably will not be a Kirk Gibson Avenue in the Dodgertown of the future. But despite Tiger owner Tom Monaghan's remarks—for which Monaghan has apologized to Gibson—Gibby is the Tigers' loss and the Dodgers' gain for his spirit, his openness and his competitiveness. We'll miss him. SHOWY DUNKS It's obvious that John Garrity, like many of us runty point guards, has never had the pleasure of producing the kind of rim-rattling jam that Michael Jordan has perfected. However, I'm not ready to outlaw the type of showy dunk that Garrity abhors. Watching today's stars soar through the air and complete the trip with a touch of flair makes the game more exciting. I agree that it's foolish to jeopardize, for the sake of show, an easy bucket late in an important game, but why shouldn't we enjoy the style, skill and grace that are so much a part of the dunk—and of basketball itself?
John Garrity's commentary on there being too much showy stuff in basketball reminded me of the scene in the movie Amadeus in which Emperor Joseph II of Austria, after having heard Mozart's opera The Abduction from the Seraglio, could only say, "...there are simply too many notes...just cut a few and it'll be perfect." It would seem that Garrity has the same reaction to genius as the emperor had. So, John Garrity believes uncontested dunks should be executed in as simple and as straightforward a manner as possible. As an avid Knicks fan, I would like to see him explain this in Madison Square Garden to the thousands of fans who are on their feet awaiting Gerald Wilkins's next creation. Thank goodness Garrity isn't the czar of basketball. After reading Garrity's essay, I removed that page from my issue and crumpled it up into a ball. I lobbed it to my mom, who was posted up in the kitchen, and raced by her yelling, "Back door, back door!" Mom faked left and then fired a perfect no-look pass toward the garbage can. I caught it and threw it down with Vanilla Lightning force, smashing it in—along with the plastic lid of the can—just as the oven timer went off. Then I picked up my mom so she could cut down the cobweb net that hung from the kitchen chandelier.
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