Benny Jay: Modern Man

I'm driving north on Southport, and my car dies....

I know there's no good place to stall in traffic, but this place particularly sucks -- in the left turn lane, just south of the intersection. I suppose it could be worse. I could, you know, be in the middle of the intersection. Guess I should count my blessings....

It's noon. Car's zipping by. Nothing I can do. I try to go through life without swearing. I really do. It shows a lack of discipline and creativity. But, every now and then -- FUCK!!!

Ah, now I feel much better....

I have a cell phone. But it's almost as useless as my car. The battery's low. The battery's been low for about two weeks. I need a new battery. As a matter of fact, I was on my way to the cell phone store to get a new battery when my car died. Can you believe this shit?

I figure I have just enough juice in my battery to make one quick call. So I call my wife, who's really busy at work. And I tell her: Can'ttalklongphonealmostoutofbatteriescardiedintrafficcalltriplea....

Which translates into: Can't talk long; phone almost out of batteries; call Triple AAA.

Message conveyed, I put on the blinkers, rush to the back of my car, and direct oncoming traffic to go around me. Some doofus in a Toyota honks his horn, like, you know, I'm standing in the middle of the street for some reason other than my car has died.

"My car is dead," I tell him.

"Fuck you," he says.

Ah, the compassion of my fellow man....

A guy on a bike pulls over and asks: "Need help?"

I want to hug him. Instead, I say: "Thanks, man...."

He gets behind my car. "We'll push it through the intersection," he says. "So you're not blocking traffic...."

We push, but the car won't budge. "You have to take it out of park," he tells me.

"Right," I say. "I knew that -- I really did...."

I hop back into my car. I'm about to switch gears when I see the keys dangling from the ignition. On an impulse, I turn the keys. It works!

"It's a miracle -- the car's on," I tell the biker. "Thanks for everything -- you're the man...."

I want to turn left and park on the side of the road. But the light's red and the car's quaking, like it's about to die at any instant. I'm waiting and waiting and waiting for the light to turn green. Ever notice how long something takes when you're waiting for it to happen?

The light turns green -- finally. I make the turn. The car's like an animal who's been shot in the leg with a bullet, limping along in pain. I drive it past the no-parking, bus-stop zone. I pull it into an empty space, just as the car dies. Phew!

I get a call from an editor. I tell him I can't talk -- battery low. I get a call from my wife -- she tells me Triple A is on its way. My phone dies. All juice gone. What the hell good is it? I toss it on the seat. I feel like the main character from that Isaac Bashevas Singer story who's on a train from New York City to Montreal in the years just after World War II. It's modern times and he's a modern man. But he feels as though with a flip of the switch he'll slip back to the Dark Ages. That's how fragile our existence is....

The deep thought passes and I bide the time the way I usually do -- thinking about the Bulls. Today's paper had a picture of Ben Gordon wearing a Blackhawks jersey. I wonder if the Bulls will sign Gordon. I start to call Norm to talk it over, when I remember: My phone's dead.

The Triple A tow truck arrives. The driver's named Ed. He couldn't be nicer. He hitches me to his tow truck, tells me to hop on in and he drives me to the mechanic. Along the way, he says the problem is the alternator -- the thing that feeds juice to the battery. It used to be called the generator. He's giving me a whole lecture when -- wham! -- the tow truck hits a speed bump that he obviously didn't see coming.

It feels as though my car was dropped from the sky.

He hops out of the truck to see if my car is damaged. Oh, brother, just what I need.

"It's okay," he assures me when he gets back.

He drives me to the mechanic and we walk into office. "We're here," I tell the lady at the cash register.

"Now, who are you?" she asks.

"The Ford," says Ed.

"Oh," she says. "Your P's husband...."

"Yeah, the one and only...."

She fills out a form and says: "Who should we call?"

"My wife," I say. "She's the brains of the family...."

"Guess you're the beauty," she says.

I shrug with Elvis-like humility and say: "I guess that's what I bring to the equation...."

When I leave the shop, she's smiling. I'm feeling pretty good, like I'm still quick with a one-liner.

Gonna call my wife to tell her all about my witty exchange. And I remember -- the cell phone's still dead. Aw, man. That's the thing about technology. It's one step forward, one step back. Probably all better off without it....

I walk home, get my bike, and peddle on over to the cell phone store.

Benny Jay: Winning The War

After the Bulls ended their season by losing game seven to the Celtics, I took the dog for a walk.

I thought I'd get away from the disappointment, but the details live in my mind. We race to the early lead, but the Celtics go on a run that turns a six-point deficit into a 14-point lead. The Bulls scratch and claw to get back. Cut it to three late in the fourth. Ben Gordon has the ball. Can tie the score and really turn things around. Should take his time, and work it around the perimeter to find a better shot. But, c'mon -- you know Ben. That's not his style. He's been a chucker all this season. He's not about to change now. Especially with the game on the line and no one else ready to step up....

The man throws up a prayer from the other side of Mongolia. It bounces out. Boston gets the rebound. And, well, here I am. Walking the dog....

After the game the TV shows Vinny Del Negro's locker-room talk to the team: I'm proud of you. You never quit. No one expected us to even be here. And so on and so forth....

It sounds like everything I ever told any little league team I ever coached after a disappointing loss. You'd think they'd come up with something more profound to say in the pros. But, really, what else is there to say?

The phone rings. It's my older daughter. She sounds like she's about to cry. Says she feels so bad cause she's really fallen in love with the Bulls in this playoff series.

I think back to a scene in my parent's house over 40 years ago after a playoff series between the Bulls and the Atlanta Hawks. I was crying in front of the TV set. I was in what -- sixth grade? My mother comes in and asks: "Why are you crying?" I tell her, "the Bulls lost." She says: "so, is that a reason to cry?" I tell her: "you wouldn't understand...."

Somehow or other I must have passed this lunacy onto my daughter.

I walk to the corner where months ago I howled at the moon. That was after Miami beat the Bulls on a last second shot by Shawn Marion. Remember? The shot came after Thabo Sefalosha threw the ball away. Thabo Sefalosha! The dude doesn't even play for the Bulls anymore. They traded him to Oklahoma City for a draft choice. Probably figured he'd never come to anything after watching him throw away that pass. Just thinking about that play makes me groan. Freaking Bulls....

I can't believe the season really ended. Feels like it just got started. They say it's too long, but I don't think it's long enough. Now I have to wait `til October -- another five of six months -- for the start of a new one.

This is too damn depressing. I call Johnny, the black Forest Gump, the wisest man I know.

He says he's at work, sitting in his patrol car out by O'Hare Airport. He heard the game on the radio. Tough game to take.

I tell him my daughter was just about crying. He tells me to tell her that "the Bulls lost the battle but they won the war."

How's that?

"They're stronger from this -- they'll come back stronger next year. You tell your daughter that what can't kill you only makes you stronger. It ain't even about the basketball game. For me `n you, the greatest thing in the world is to watch the games with our daughters. I watched game six with Taaj. She was telling me -- `Bulls gotta switch up their defense.' `The Bulls ain't blockin' out.' Tellin' me all kinds of stuff. The girl really knows her stuff. You `n me, Benny, we got to be the luckiest guys alive. Get to watch the games with our daughters.

"Make sure you tell your daughter that we lost the battle but won the war. And tell her that if this is the worst thing that ever happened to her, she's doin' all right...."

Benny Jay: Blows To The Head

For game five of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series, I go to Plan B -- or is it C? -- in order to keep myself from losing my mind: Inebriation.

If you recall, my first plan -- not watching the game -- didn't really work. I wound up making a fool of myself in front of a bunch of track-and-field fans. My second plan -- reading while watching -- was a complete failure. I came close to going insane.

I figure this time I'll get drunk. That ought to do the trick. I mean, it's done wonders for so many other people down through the ages.

So I go over to Norm's house and his lady friend, Sandy, couldn't be nicer. Feeds me pizza and bean dip -- uhm, that stuff is dee-li-cious! And I bring over an 18-pack of Budweiser, cause that's Norm's favorite beer.

I down one and then I down another. And by the third quarter I'm into my third -- which for me is serious boozing. I'm feeling no pain. Feeling groovy. Definitely enjoying the company. It's me and Norm and his daughter, Audrey, and his friends, the double Bs -- Brian and Brian. After the half, Milo comes by. What a great game. Back and forth they go. Up one, down one, up three, down three and so on and so forth.

At the start of the fourth the Bulls go on a mini run and take an eleven-point lead. But you know how it goes with the champs -- they make their own run. Cut the lead to eight, five, three. Next thing you know we're in overtime -- again.

They go up and we fight back. But we can't stop Paul Pierce. He hits one, two, three -- four cold-blooded, killer shots in the O.T. We're down two with three seconds left and coach Vinny Del Negro calls a time out and sets up this play. They fake an inbounds pass to Ben Gordon, but they throw it to Brad Miller, the back-up center. Is that brilliant or what? He's the last guy Boston thinks will get the ball. They probably forgot he was even on the court -- probably think I'll get the pass before Brad Miller.

Miller's got an open lane to the basket, just like Vinny planned. All he has to do is run in and slam it home and the game's tied and we're going to double overtime -- just like last game.

And he's running. At least, I think he's running. I mean, that is running -- isn't it? It's hard to tell cause he's so freaking slow -- Brad Miller has got to be the slowest man in basketball. And by the time he makes it to the basket the Celtics have closed in on him and as he rises to lay it in Rajon Rondo whacks him across the face. I mean, we're talking solid punch to the face. Knocks him down. It should be a flagrant -- two free throws and the ball on the side. But the refs don't call flagrant. They call a regular foul. Which means Miller's got two free throws to tie the score with two seconds left.

"How can that not be a mutha-fuckin' flagrant foul?" says Norm.

"He popped him in the face!" says Brian.

Miller goes to the sideline to wipe away the blood. And they stitch him up to stop the bleeding. And he staggers back to the line and he misses. Of course, he misses. You try shooting a free throw after getting smacked in the face. And the Bulls lose.

There's not much to say. We just stare at the TV. We've devoted over three hours of our lives to this gut-wrenching basketball game and now it's over and we've lost. There's nothing we can say cause what can you say. I feel like a boxer who's been through fifteen rounds with the champ. Too stunned to talk, too exhausted to cry. Too many blows to the head.

Milo leaves. Audrey goes to her computer. But Norm, Brian, Bee and I just keep staring at the tube. They're replaying the footage of Rondo whacking Miller in the head -- over and over and over.

"Can you believe this shit?" says Norm.

"No," I say.

"He fouled him," says Brian.

"Just smacked him in head," I say.

"Ain't that a bitch," says Norm.

I get it together to get on up and get my coat and head out to my car. On the radio, they're playing "Purple Rain" by Prince. I crank up the volume so it's blasting out of my brain: "Purple Rain, Purple Rain, I only want to see you in the Purple Rain...."

I've watched so many basketball games for so many years, you'd think I'd get tired of it. But I don't. Just the opposite. The more I watch, the more I want to watch. Just keep coming back. There's something about the way they go at it. I think of Brad Miller. The man took a fist to the face. Hit me like that and I'm in the hospital for a week. But Brad Miller? He just wipes off the blood and takes his free throw. Yeah, he missed it. But he took it.

Keep coming back. Never quit. Bulls got game six on Thursday. Win that and it's game seven on Saturday. Lose either one? Well, take the summer off and come on back next year.

Benny Jay: Fit Me For A Straitjacket

I wanna try something different for game four of the Bulls-Celtics playoff series.

As you may recall, last time I didn't watch it. This time I'll watch it but I won't care. I'm serious. I'll be indifferent. I'll lie on the sofa and half watch while I read a book. Yeah, that's it. I'll catch up on "Clockers," Richard Price's novel. Every now and then I'll look up just to, you know, check on the score....

I get through exactly one paragraph as the Bulls race off to a strong start. I'm too excited to read. I'm on my feet, clapping and cheering and talking to the TV. I'm telling the Bulls to calm down, like they can hear me. Or like they would listen to me if they could. I'm working the refs, telling them to call it both ways -- "he hacked, ref -- he hacked" -- and not just against the Bulls....

I'm alone in the house. Just me and the dog. And she's sleeping....

Near the end of the first quarter, I call Milo. He says he's not watching, like he's got more important things to do. Ha! I know different. I bet he's watching. I bet he just wants me to think he's not watching. I bet he just wants me to think he doesn't care about the Bulls as much as I care about the Bulls because he doesn't want me to know that he's as big a loser as I am. But, I'm on to you, Milo. I know you're watching. Oh, yes, I know....

At the end of the first half, the Bulls, up by two, leave Ray Allen wide open -- and I mean, absolutely all alone -- behind the three-point line in the corner. He drains the three, and I throw up my hands. Ray Allen is simply one of the greatest three-point shooters in the game. Why oh, why, oh, why would you leave him -- of all people -- open for a three?

That's it. I can watch no longer. I walk to the video store. I tell the video store guy how much I love Roman Polanski. He tells me a good Roman Polanski movie to watch. I can see right away that he's one of those guys who doesn't care about sports. Probably thinks that anyone who cares about sports is weird. Which we are. Talking to him about Roman Polanski is my way of proving to myself that I'm really not some weird guy who's obsessed with the Bulls. Except, of course, I am....

On the way home, I duck into a corner bar to catch up on the score. Bulls up one. Good! On I walk, enjoying the foliage and the twittering birds. Cause that's what normal people do on a nice spring day. They don't sit inside and watch the Bulls on TV. They enjoy nature....

When I get home, I think -- I'll just take another peek. Bulls up by five. Oh, that's good. Then Boston scores a bunch in a row. Glen `Big Baby' Davis hits a basket. I used to like Big Baby -- cause he's fat. And, generally, I like fat basketball players. But now I curse him -- the big fat pig. What can I say -- it's the playoffs....

It's a back-and-forth affair: Bulls up one, down one, up two, down three. At commercials, I pretend I'm Derrick Rose and I've just intercepted a pass. I imagine that I score a bunch of points in a row and that we -- the Bulls -- are running away with the game. I know I need help. I'm sure there's a doctor I can talk to or pills I can take. Maybe I should try a different hobby....

Bulls up three. Seconds left in the fourth quarter. Rajon Rondo has the ball for Boston. He dribbles right. He passes back to Ray Allen, who -- no! -- is open. I mean, wide open. I mean, so freaking wide open that he has enough time to shower and shave before the closest Bull can run to him. He shoots. He hits. All net. What do you expect? He's open. Why would the Bulls leave Ray Allen open -- again? Noooooooo....

In the first overtime, Boston goes up. I can't bear to watch. I settle on a new strategy. I'll run out of the room when Boston has the ball and I'll come back when I think the Bulls have the ball. That way I minimize the bad things and maximize the good things that I see. Great idea. Can't believe I didn't think of this before. And so I go -- in the room, out of the room, in, out, in, out....

Bulls down three. Seconds left. John Salmons to Ben Gordon. He dribbles right. He fires up a three -- good! Yes! Yes! Yes! Double overtime....

The Bulls score first. They score again. There's a commercial. I pick up the clutter in the living room. I empty the dishwasher. I gather up newspapers and dump them in the recycling bin. If there were a Bulls game every day, the house would be spick-and-span....

Bulls up three. Seconds left. Paul Pierce shoots. John Salmons blocks the shot! Game over. Bulls win! Bulls win! In double overtime. Playoff series tied at two. Next game in Boston....

I jump up and down. I sing, "Go Bulls, go." A song, by the way, that I made up. A song that only I know. I call Norm. I call Milo. I call Johnny. I call Daddy Dee. I suddenly remember that after every Bulls home win the radio interviews a player on the court. I rush to the radio just as they're finishing their interview with Joakim Noah.

"Finally, Joakim," the announcer is saying, "what about these fans?"

"Off the hook," says Joakim. "Off the hook."

If he only knew -- lord, lord, lord, if he only knew....

Letter From Milo: Baby's Dirty Little Secrets

My wife pissed me off the other day. I mean she really pissed me off. She called me lazy, inattentive, anti-social, hygiene-challenged and a drunkard. I want to go on record as saying that I am not lazy. I just spend a lot of time thinking.

Anyway, the more I thought about what she said, the angrier I became. I couldn't let it go. I had to get back at her. I'd show the bitch who's who and what's what around here. The problem was that I couldn't think of a proper revenge. Then, one sleepless night, it came to me. And it was perfect.

When I first started doing this blog, my wife said, "I don't care what you write about, just don't write about our sex life."

Well, honey, your worst fears are about to be realized. I'm going to expose you as the wanton, salacious woman you truly are. When I get done with this posting you'll be too embarrassed to ever show your face in public again. Your friends and relatives will ostracize you. I'm going into such lurid detail that your deepest, darkest, most illicit secrets will become public knowledge. I'll show you.

I'll never forget this one time she.... Wait! Wait, let me get something else off my chest first. A few weeks ago I wrote a piece about Tommy Granger, the poor teenage boy who was hung in 1642, by our Pilgrim Fathers, for having carnal knowledge of a sheep. I thought that it was a terrible miscarriage of justice, hanging some kid for committing an offense that the average Indiana farmboy commits on a regular basis. I asked my readers to help me restore Tommy's reputation by starting a letter writing campaign to our legislators. To date, I have not received one letter in support of clearing Tommy's name. Needless to say, I am deeply disappointed.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, getting ready to reveal my wife's inner tart. There was this one time when she had a little too much to drink and she.... Hold it, I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine and savor it while I'm giving my wife her proper comeuppance. Be right back.

Damn! I had to open a new bottle. I didn't realize I drank so much last night. Good thing I gave up drinking hard liquor. I have to admit I once did have a little problem with booze, but not anymore. I'm a reformed man, for the most part, although I do miss the old rip and roar. Moderation was never one of my virtues. I remember waking up one morning with a foggy head and a pain in my backside. When I checked it out I discovered a large bruise on my ass.

I couldn't remember the previous evening very clearly, so I asked my wife, "Honey, did we have a disagreement last night?"

"Why?"

"I've got this bruise on my ass and was just wondering if you - heh, heh - hit me with a skillet or something."

"No, you asshole, you got drunk and fell down the basement stairs."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you bounced twice before rolling to a stop."

"Darn."

Let me get back to business here. The time has come to reap my well-deserved revenge. Once this blog becomes a matter of public record, my wife will never, ever mess with me again. Okay, here's the real dirt. She used to own this pair of high heels and one time.... Shit, I've got to answer the phone. Be right back.

That was Benny Jay. For those who don't know, Benny is a Bulls fan. Fan may be the wrong word. Zealot would be a more honest description. Tonight is game three of the Bulls-Celtics first round playoff series. Benny is a nervous wreck. He see gloom and doom everywhere. He worries about Derrick Rose's inexperience, Ben Gordon's hot and cold streaks, and John Salmons's injury. Benny remembers the Bulls' glory days when Michael Jordan was playing and the Bulls were unbeatable. I remember those days, too. I try to reassure Benny, telling him that even if the Bulls lose, they are on the right track. We've got a great young player, who one day, barring injury, will lead us back to the Promised Land of raised banners and Grant Park celebrations. Benny seems mollified, but I make a note to contact his wife and make sure she keeps Benny away from sharp objects, power tools and the third rail on the Brown Line, if the Bulls lose.

Finally I have to cut Benny off. I tell him I'm working on something vitally important right now and we agree to talk later.

Enough's enough. It's time to put the final nail in the coffin, show my wife the price she has to pay for messing with me. I swear, when this blog is posted, the Earth will shift under her feet. She may decide to enter a convent and renounce all worldly pleasure. Ha, ha - it'll serve her right.

Wait! The phone's ringing again. Be right back.

That was Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this blog site. He just told me to wrap it up, that I've used up my allotted number of words for this posting. It doesn't pay to argue with Big Mike. Rumor has it that he pistol-whipped the last blogger who exceeded his word limit. Okay, no problem. I'll fix my wife's wagon at another time. Stay tuned.

Benny Jay: Can't Sleep

I wake at 2:45 in the morning. Can't sleep. Go to the bathroom. Come back to bed. Still can't sleep. Think about a conversation I had seven hours ago with a 61-year-old man whose father used to be a Congressman. He's going through his dead father's papers, thousands and thousands of papers. He's got them in a storage facility on the south side of Chicago.

I think about -- what else? -- the Bulls. They won tonight -- or last night. Beat Denver. 117-99. Or was it 116-99? I think about who scored what: Gordon 37, Thomas: 22. Or was it 21?

I look at the clock. It's three. Seems like an hour's passed, but it's only ten minutes.

There's two kinds of sleeplessness. The kind where you can't fall asleep. And this....

The dog's restless. Her tags rattle as she licks her paws. Sounds as loud as a snow plow in the dead of night. I hear my Wife gently breathing. Who can sleep with this racket?

I get out of bed, find my slippers and head downstairs. My throat's parched. I need some water. Must have been that barbecue sauce we had at the Korean restaurant. Too salty. Gotta cut back on the salt.

There's a stack of newspapers on the kitchen table. I read about the acquittal of three men in Moscow for killing a journalist. I read about Obama's housing bailout. I read about the budget crisis in the state of California.

I look out the window. It's starting to snow. My Mother told me we were gonna get snow. Said we'd get 12 inches. She knows all about the weather cause she watches cable TV. Everything I know about the weather I learn from conversations with my mom.

I read a book about Reconstruction called Capitol Men. I think about that journalist in Russia. Can't get her out of my mind. I look her up on the Internet. Her name is Anna Politkovskaya. She covered war, crime, and corruption. Someone shot her in the head as she was leaving her apartment building. It might have been a hit ordered by the Russian mob or maybe the government.

I look out the window. Snow's falling faster. It's 4:45. My day officially starts in less than two hours. Got to drive my Younger Daughter to a track meet.

That's the worst part about sleeplessness. It haunts you all day....

To be continued....

Benny Jay: Howling At The Moon

I get a call at seven thirty or so from Norm. He's at the Bulls game with his stepdaughter, Audrey.

He tells me it's halftime and the Bulls are losing by eleven to Miami.

Damn! I hate Miami. I don't want to hear about it. I don't want to face another Bulls loss. I can't take this season. Win one, lose one, win one, lose two -- the inconsistency is driving me nuts.

Norm starts in about Ben Gordon: too short, can't play d, can't dribble....

I can't take it anymore. I love Ben Gordon.

We hang up. I get busy. Time passes. I forget about the Bulls.

I go to the kitchen to have a delicious glass of chocolate milk.

I turn on the radio. There's six seconds left in the game. Bulls down by three. And Ben Gordon has been fouled in the act of shooting a three-point shot. Can you believe this! He's going to the free-throw line to shoot three free throws and possibly tie the game.

I turn off the radio. Too scared to listen. Then I think -- be a man! I turn it on again.

Gordon dribbles three times. Takes a Breath. Shoots. Good!

I pick up an orange and start tossing it in the air.

Gordon dribbles, breathes, shoots -- Good, again!

I close my eyes. I hold my breath. I cross my fingers. I say: "Please, please, please...."

Gordon breathes. Shoots. Good!

He did it. He did it. He did it. Ben Gordon tied the game!

I call Norm.

No answer.

I leave a message: "I told you not to hate on Ben...."

I rush back to the radio. Miami's inbounding the ball. Chalmers looks, looks, looks -- he throws it in. Intercepted by Hinrich. Bulls ball; Bulls ball.....

The crowd's howling. I'm howling. I call Norm. No answer. I jump up and down. I sing. I dance. I rework the Cubs fight song, which I sing as I loudly clap along: "Go, Bulls, go; go, Bulls, go -- hey, Chicago, what do you say, the Bulls are gonna win today...."

Nicky, the dog, comes into the kitchen. I pound her on the back: "The Bulls have the ball, Nicky; the Bulls have the ball....."

The commercial ends. The teams return to the court. Six seconds left. The Bulls have a chance to win the game.

Thabo Sefalosha's inbounding. He's looking to pass it in. He's looking.....

"Pass the ball," I yell.

He throws it away. Miami's ball. "Noooo!" I yell. "Noooooooo!"

I actually moan.

The phone rings. It's my older daughter calling from Iowa. She's been watching the game on TNT. "Can you believe this?" she says.

"They threw away the ball," I say.

"I know, but what a great game...."

"I can't believe Thabo threw it away...."

I don't wanna listen. But I do. Wade gets the ball. He throws it to Marion. He dunks. Bull lose.

I turn off the radio. I slump in a chair. I can't talk. Norm calls. But I'm too sad too talk. I walk the dog. I call my daughter. "I'll call you tomorrow," she tells me. "I'm going to a friend's...."

She's already over it -- she forgot about this game as soon as it was over. But not me. I can't forget.

I walk on. I don't even feel the cold. I take out my phone. I start to call Milo. I need to talk to someone. I'm halfway through dialing when I realize -- he goes to bed early. He's probably asleep. He's too smart to stay up late for this crap. I put away my phone and keep walking.

This love for the Bulls -- it's insane. It's irrational. I'm a lunatic. It's a curse.

I make a decision. That's it. It's over. No more. From here on out, I'm through with the Bulls.

I look at the moon and I howl....