I come not to bury Luis Scola, but to praise him.
As missing pieces go, Scola has been a steadily flowing river of underwhelming force. His arrival in Indianapolis was supposed to be a Rubicon-crossing moment for the Pacers, taking a small mortgage on their future and casting both the die and caution to the wind. “Alea iacta est,” the Pacers cried as the stepped past their Pre-Scola epoch. But instead of the offensive caulk they were expecting to wedge into the gaps in their second-unit, the Pacers’ have mostly gotten splendid hair and an inconsistent mid-range jumpshot.
But that was regular season Luis Scola. This is the playoffs.
The Pacers’ Republic has fallen into disrepair, led blindly by bloated, slothful senators with goatees painted purple with stale wine. Indianapolis is crying out for an emperor, a man of force and foresight, to grab hold of the reigns and recast a populist republic as the greatest empire the earth has ever known. The Pacers need a leader. They need Luis Scola, and I for one welcome our new benevolent overlord.
Long live the empire. Long live the emperor. Long live Luis Scola.
*I realize my mismatched metaphors border on a criminal misunderstanding of Roman history. Even more embarrassing is the fact that I’ve chosen to wrap these metaphors around Luis Scola, an Argentinian. But as the great poet William Joel once said, “You may be Argentinian, but you’re all European to me.”