A certain Westbank-born, Jesuit High School-LSU educated, uptown bicycler made the impossible happen this morning: he made me give a crap about the Hornets’ playoff run. I hope he doesn’t mind my borrowing his topic and spewing forth a little rant of my own on the subject.

Firstly, let me just say that I don’t have anything at all against the Hornets. In fact, I wish them nothing but success. I think it’s great that they’re (back) in New Orleans, I’m glad they’re winning, I’m glad they’re packing the arena and are creating such excitement in the city. I’m glad Hornets fans are having such a great time, and I hope it continues for as long as possible.

It’s just that I don’t give a crap about basketball. I’ve tried, but I just don’t have it in me. Football is my first love. There are pictures of me from before I could walk with all manner of Saints and LSU merchandise. I was pretty much born and bred a Saints/LSU fan. Other sports didn’t come until later for me, when I gained unsupervised access to cable tee vee. Summers out of school, two working parents and day games on WGN turned me into a Cubs fan. Baseball became my second love. (Little league helped a lot too. When it came to participation, I actually preferred baseball to football, and I still do today.)

The Jazz had already left for Salt Lake City by then, so by the time basketball entered my childhood consciousness, it was mainly because of Hawks games on (W)TBS. Never really became a Hawks "fan" per se, but hey, it was sports and it was on tee vee. I’ll have to ask my parents one of these days why, as far as I can remember, I was never really exposed to the Jazz while they were in town.

During my days as a basketball kinda-sorta-fan, I bounced around a little. I was fascinated by Dr. J and Daryl Dawkins, and I thought the name Mo Cheeks was funny, so I was a 76ers "fan" for a while. Eventually I changed allegiances to the Celtics. Why? Mainly because of that bitchin’ parquet floor at the Garden.

When the parents eventually agreed to put up a backboard in the driveway, I insisted on making my own. I didn’t want the prefab fiberglass high-school backboard everybody else had. I wanted a rectangular piece of thick plywood that we’d cut to NBA dimensions, and I’d stain and varnish to look like that bitchin’ parquet floor and paint the lines on myself. Eventually, I called a last-minute audible and decided that the trim wouldn’t be shamrock and white, but rather, LSU purple and mustard yellow. Good call. Damn was I proud of that thing. It didn’t even start to warp for at least two weeks. It sure was purty though. And that, folks, was the high point of my basketball fanhood. A really sweet-looking homemade backboard which ultimately proved to be of poor quality.

Still reading? Mind if I ask why?

I’m not sure why, but eventually I left basketball behind. It was never much more than an adolescent dalliance for me anyway… a plan-b pastime when there weren’t any "better" sports (or pseudo-sports) to play or to watch. So when the Hornets moved to town, it was barely a blip on my radar. "Hey, good for them. Good for New Orleans. More power to ‘em." But that’s been about it.

So I’m certainly not about to go all bandwagon Hornets fan here. I think what they’re doing is great, but this isn’t about basketball. No, Little Hap’s Dad has hipped me to an angle that’s far bigger than basketball: personal animosity. Grudge-holding. Stickin’ it to jerks. Chickens coming home to roost. Schadenfreude. Hell yeah, baby! Now that’s something I can really sink my teeth into.

Now I’m not gonna sit here and call Phil Hardberger names. As regular visitors to this here blog already know, we try to stay on the high road here at moosedenied. We’re not going to lower ourselves to sophomoric namecalling and petty vitriol here. The esteemed mayor of San Antonio, after all, is deserving of respect.

That being said, let’s pause for a second for no reason whatsoever to gaze upon these here pictures of a douchebag, a horse’s ass and a Rat Bastard:

The irony of it all (in the accurate sense of the word, not the Finney definition) is that in the end, Hardberger’s bumbling douchebaggery was probably as significant a contributing factor as any in the ultimate decision to drag Benson Football Incorporated kicking and screaming back to New Orleans. Second only to the herculean efforts of Joe Horn, that is.

Had Hardberger been capable of mustering even a modicum of humility, an ounce of tact, rather than incessantly shooting off at the mouth like some kind of… *ahem*… loose cannon… he might just have been able to pull it off. His complete inability to keep a public lid on his unbridled enthusiasm for looting the remains after the Federal Flood, even as sharks were still swimming through the streets of Metairie (or something) served only to add fuel to the public relations fire that would have accompanied the move that somewhere deep down we all know the NFL would have made if there were any way to sufficiently "finesse it."

Fortunately for us, Phil Hardberger is the antithesis of finesse. His compulsion to be a heartless, obnoxious jackass made it all but impossible for Tagliabue to continue down that road. Nothing like your opponent having a detestable, arrogant fuckwit for a spokesperson to galvanize public opinion against their cause.

So thanks, Mayor Hardberger. On some ironic level, we owe you our eternal gratitude for doing what perhaps only you were capable of doing: paving the Saints’ long road back home to where they belong. Your overwhelming asshattery benefitted us greatly, where a lesser asshat may have failed us. Thanks again. Now kindly go fuck yourself. Love, New Orleans.

Let it go? No way. Never. Not a chance in hell.

Being a sports fan is to a large extent an affair of the heart, and Hardberger wouldn’t know anything about that. So I doubt that Hardberger himself will suffer any personal anguish when the Hornets complete their humiliation of the Boot Accessories. But it does my heart good to know that he might.

So Geaux Hornets! The very idea that a Hornets win over the Boot Accessories amounts to a metaphorical swift kick to Phil Hardberger’s shriveled testicles is quite a compelling reason to care. Deeply.

But hey, here at moosedenied, we’re all about sportsmanship. So good luck to the Spurs and their diehard fans. Good luck to the city of San Antonio and their one big league sports franchise.

And good luck to you, mayor Hardberger. May you get everything you’ve got coming to ya.

Oh yeah, and… FYYFF.