If Mikki Moore Is the Belle of the Ball, You Probably Shouldn’t Go

One of the greatest things about following the NBA (or anything, for that matter) in detail is the absurdity and triviality of minutiae.  The other greatest thing about following the NBA is when people are actually fighting with each other over who gets to sign Mikki Moore.

Tom Ziller, Mikki Moore’s BFF, may have said it best:

Moore has an amazing story, with a one-in-a-million work ethic and a heart of solid gold. I’m a huge fan of Moore, The Man. So if a team like Boston wants to had him in order to help the youngsters stay motivated, to add 2.3 guttural screams per game, to boost the dreadlock/frightening tattoo quotient … by all means, do it. But don’t think Mikki will come in and be another P.J. Brown. That is not this dude.

Too true.  Mikki Moore, by all indications, sounds like an incredible man.  But as we all know, men don’t play basketball.  Playas do.  Ya dig?  I remember a day when it was cool to make fun of the fact that Mikki Moore could only make dunks.  I remember a day when Mikki Moore vowed to become Jason Kidd’s bodyguard for life because he made him millions of dollars.  And I foresee a day when we, brothers and sisters of the basketball world, join hands in giggling whenever Moore’s name is mentioned as a vital cog of the Celtic bench.

Great in the locker room, great in the psyches of younger players, and not so great in the paint.  This, ladies and gentlemen, is Mikki Moore, savior of the Boston Celtics.

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