RMJ 69 April 24

THURSDAY, APRIL 24 ● Off-day in Houston

Actually this day bled into the other somewhere along the west Loop in Houston, as the sun rose over the downtown skyline.

I was taking Cubby back to his house; he had slept a little on the plane. I had stayed awake. After dropping him off, I drove home and found Judy on the way out to take Ryan to school, so I read through the paper, hoping for a homemade breakfast before bed.

Dale Robertson wrote a column in the Chronicle about me and Rockets head coach Rudy Tomjanovich, which I read with much relish. It was quite flattering, and it made me feel oddly heroic in the early dawn. Our success to date has been wonderful, but it’s way too soon to be predicting greatness. Dale is a good writer, and he crafted this piece well, as he often does. The vibrations on the team, and in the city, are hard to ignore. It is gratifying, to say the least.

I had to settle for a heated croissant and some light conversation when Judy returned from her morning jog. She sure looked great. How she does that in the morning, fresh out of bed, I’ll never know, but I love her for it — and so many other things.

Life is so good, I had to read myself to sleep at 8 a.m.

 

When I awoke, I paid some bills and read through the mail. Half the day was already spent.

I had lunch and did a little writing before Ryan came home from school. He was going to play baseball at 6:00, so I threw him some balls to catch for warmups. His team was slaughtered by the best team in the league, the Outlaws.

Afterward, we hustled over to the Summit for the Rockets’ first playoff game with the Timberwolves. It was no contest, as the Rockets had too much muscle for the young Wolves. 

           

I guess our good start has been duly noted. Many people offered congratulations on it. One of them was sitting right behind me at the basketball game, and he just about drove us crazy. This guy was so loud and so hyped-up that he could have won a talking contest hands-down.

And it wasn’t just the steady stream of verbiage that was so impressive: He was extremely loud and well-informed. This was no obnoxious drunk we were dealing with; this was a rabid fan.

When the Wolves picked up their fourth team foul in the first quarter, he started yelling stuff like, “Drive the lane. C’mon now, take it to the hoop. Draw the foul, get in the penalty and make them pay. Shoot ’em down at the line. C’mon, lets go! No, no, Clyde [Drexler], don’t shoot the three now! We got to get that foul.”

When the Rockets took time out, he didn’t. “Hey, how about those Astros, Larry D? How ’bout that Billy Wagner? No one can hit the guy. He’s unhittable. Way to go with Donne Wall. Can’t wait to see him! The guy is a winner. Way to go, Larry D! The Rockets are going all the way, and so are the Astros!

This stream-of-consciousness ramble continued unabated throughout the game. Well, I can’t speak for the last five minutes, as the Rockets led by 20 when we left — to give our ears a break.

I assume he had enough left to go the distance; the Rockets did. They won by 17.

 

When we got home, Judy and Ryan hit the sack. I needed the extra sleep myself, but I wasn’t the least bit tired. I sat up reading for a couple of hours, and pulled the shades on the off-day at 2 a.m.