The Diary: Eddie’s Latest One-Liners

My name is Stan Van Gundy and I’m Ron Jeremy’s stunt double. I learned how to play Rashard Lewis with Pietrus and Hedo, and it helped me win a big game for once. I’m no Jeff.

My name is LeBron James and I shouldn’t take nine days off ever again. I also finally got to play a half-decent team in the Playoffs, and they were able to expose our offense, which consists of three plays.

My name is JJ Reddick. Sometimes I have bad shooting nights because I don’t go out to practice my three; instead before a big game I sit in the locker room next to Hedo — who’s eating pizza — and work on my hairdo with a bottle of gel and a comb.

My name is Kobe Bryant, and I miss being 25, where no matter who you were, I would have taken your ass to the rim for a dunk or two guaranteed free throws.

My name is George Karl and I simply can’t get it done. Nor can I get a suit that fits perfectly and doesn’t make me look like Koko the Clown. In Game 7 in Los Angeles, when the Lakers are up by 1 and we have the ball with 6 seconds left on the clock in the fourth quarter, I’ll once again have Anthony Carter — the shortest player on my team — take the ball out of bounds where he’s met by Lamar Odom — a near 7-footer who played street ball in New York. I will have him pass to Chauncey, a guy who walks so slow to get the pass, telegraphing it to the entire court, that we’re bound to give them a steal and a win in a game we probably should have won.

My name is Kenyon Martin and I just fouled Kobe Bryant 30 feet from the basket in the biggest game of the last 20 years in our franchise’s history by reaching in for some reason while three people were defending him.

My name is Carmelo Anthony and I need to be traded to a team where my potential will grow into a championship, and not a team where my teammate feuds with Mark Cuban, uses double negatives in every sentence, and where the number of tats on our team combined is greater than the number of dumb decisions our coach has made this season. Either way, I’m set on showing everyone I’m that damn good and MJ knew something when he gave me that Nike deal.

My name is J.R. Smith and I really don’t give a damn if we beat the Lakers or not. Why should I care if my club’s owner doesn’t believe in us and would rather watch RAW?

My name is Blake Griffin and David Stern’s ping pong balls screwed me for life.

Can’t you just picture a depressed-looking Baron Davis bouncing off Marcus Camby and Zach Randolph during timeouts as Eric Gordon and Blake Griffin cry aloud? The NBA – Where Mike Dunleavy Happens.