Anthony Morrow

The Warriors are basketball Nyquil

The inflatable mattress was set up in prime position in the living room yesterday evening, directly in front of the TV.

Me: wearing pajama-like clothing and thick socks, underneath two warm blankets.

The dog (AKA Lincepom): lying patiently next to me, wishing I was mobile enough to throw her favorite ball across the apartment.

Yep, this week marked the longest illness in recent years, a nasty cold/fever/bronchitis combination which caused me to miss work for three straight days. In fact, I’d probably still be home today if missing more than three days consecutively weren’t so taboo in the corporate world. But yesterday I was in full rest mode, looking for something to nap to.

Should I choose the Capitals/Sabres game on Versus? Nah, Alex Ovechkin is too interesting, and my post-Olympics hockey high hasn’t quite dissipated quite yet.

How about one of the league networks (MLB, NFL, NBA, etc.)? No, because they’d surely start talking about spring training, the NBA draft or some sort of hypothetical player transactions that would no doubt grab my attention.

The perfect answer for a late afternoon/early evening snooze? The Golden State Warriors on the second end of a Florida back-to-back in Orlando.

Oh, I stayed awake for a little while. Long enough to see Ronny Turiaf make a layup while getting fouled, followed by some sort of Antoine Walker-esque shimmy-shake by the Frenchman. I also remember hearing Jim Barnett implore Stephen Curry to concentrate on passing rather than forcing up shots (translation: please, for the love of God, stop ballhogging). But soon, the dulcet tones of Bob Fitzgerald describing Dwight Howard jump-hooks had me in a deeper sleep than Felipe Alou in the bottom of the sixth.

I had some dream where it was halftime, with Matt Steinmetz complaining that Howard goes to his left hand too much, and Garry St. Jean mentioned that Anthony Morrow’s turning into a “real good player.”

About an hour later, the dog finally decided she couldn’t take it anymore. She jumped on my shoulder, pawed at the blankets surrounding my face and licked my nose, which in dog language means, “Hey lazy ass, I need to take a piss and I can’t exactly open the door and run down three flights of stairs without your help.” It was the fourth quarter, and the Warriors were down by 20+.

Nap: successful.

Warriors: suck-sess-full.

The Dubs may not be able to field (court?) a legitimate NBA roster, and they may be the most irrelevant and oddly dysfunctional franchise in the NBA other than the New Jersey Nets, but they sure can help a guy sweat out a cold when paired with a healthy serving of cough syrup.

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