We Need To See Other People
It started with that email in July of 2024, sugar — not a love note, not a highlight reel, just another invoice from you.
“To renew your seats at the Intuit Dome, please remit payment reflecting a 60 percent adjustment.”
Adjustment. Like you were getting a little work done and wanted me to pick up the tab. The audacity. You let Paul George walk for nothing, and then you ask me to dig deeper? You light our future on fire and send me the bill?
I’ve carried you through worse, darling. I paid for the surgeries, the rehabs, the therapy sessions disguised as Tuesday games. I was happy to send you to medical school. But now you want to drive a Bentley while you do it?!
When Losing Still Felt Like Living
There was a time, honey, when losing with you was almost romantic.
You were scrappy, cheap, and full of energy — the gym-rat years. Elton Brand, Corey Maggette, Sam Cassell, Quentin Richardson. We didn't have much to show for it, but you worked hard. You clocked in.
Every April heartbreak felt earned. Every May was another promise: next year the ping-pong balls might finally love us back. Maybe we wouldn't blow the #1 pick on Michael Olowokandi the next time.
And then came Lob City, when you discovered makeup and flashbulbs. Chris, Blake, DeAndre, Kaman — you were the loudest girl in the room, all flair and no follow-through. We fought, we kissed, we made the highlight reels. We won a dunk contest over the roof of a KIA Optima. I thought it was forever.
Then the tech money came in and you reinvented yourself again. New friends, designer sneakers (does New Balance count as designer?) You promised this time it was different.
But then you spent everything thing we had and mortgaged our future for Kawhi and PG, so for the last five years we’ve been trying to build a life together on a table with four bad legs. I can't keep pretending this IKEA experiment is going to hold together.
Giving You Space
Last year, I walked away. No games, no calls, no late-night check-ins. You played. I didn’t. And the strangest thing happened — I didn’t miss you.
You limped into the playoffs, flamed out in the first round, and for the first time in two decades I slept through the postmortem. Turns out peace of mind costs less than season tickets.
Then I hear the whispers — you’ve been cheating.
Twenty-eight million under the table to show the other guy how much you really love him? What has he ever done for you?
Did you even think about our future? About the chance we had? If the league decides to come for you, baby, and they take the next five years of picks? You won’t recover. You’ll be the oldest girl at the dance with no ride home.
I gave you everything I had, and you turned around and gave it to a Johnny come lately. He'll be gone within a year, mark my words.
The Girl Across Town
And while you’re busy hiding receipts, your sister across town just pulled off another miracle.
The Lakers — always smug, always glowing — somehow talked Dallas into handing over Luka for a busted AD and D’Angelo’s playoff allergies. And they’ll keep winning. They always do.
Every decade, she rewrites the story of the league while you find a new way to be investigated by it.
We Need to See Other People
So here we are, sweetie. No more tickets. No merch. No explanations left to invent. Just me and the ghost of what we used to be.
It’s not you, baby. It’s… actually, no. It is you.
You were my Tuesday nights, my nine-dollar beer, my excuse to believe that effort could outlast luck. But I can’t keep pretending this is love when it's been a one way street.
Maybe we’re not breaking up. Maybe we just need to see other people.
And if one of them happens to wear purple and gold — well, that’s on you.
Todd / 120 Proof Ball
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