Deadspin (the person who runs it, not the actual website) went to a Dennis Rodman book signing in NYC yesterday, and we can only describe it as “sad/weird/sad/pathetic/sad”. Because we feel the same way as Will, we’re going to excerpt the part that really hit us, as opposed to the funny parts, which is most of the rest of it:
Nobody provided us more joy in watching the game of basketball than Dennis Rodman. He was impossible not to watch; we would find ourselves beginning to root for missed shots so he could get the rebound.
Maybe it was the way he sprinted down the court like his knees had pogos in them. Maybe it was the endless diving into the crowd for loose balls. Maybe it was just the relentless, almost pathological hustle; Rodman played like his life relied upon every individual rebound, every second, every shot, every win, every loss. He was magnetic. When you strip away everything else, Rodman was a winner, someone who made everyone else on the court better. And he did it with so much passion that it wouldn’t have surprised anyone if, one day, after a championship, he set himself on fire, right there at center court. And we would have loved him for it.
Go over and read the day’s experience, including the bitter photographers, embarrassed girls, and sparse crowds. We have to wonder, if we’re in line for a book signing and there’s only like a dozen other people there, do we stay? We tend to think we don’t – we don’t want to have to look the author in the eye, even if they are painted like Beetlejuice.
Jennifer Garner wasn’t really there, but wouldn’t it be funny if she was, and then stood a little away from the table and shunned our heroes?
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