The Hornets beat the Hawks… no, we mean the Hornets really beat the Hawks

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This game changes nothing. That should be clear. The Atlanta Hawks were never contenders in anyone’s eye, not seriously, and this loss doesn’t preclude them from some insane, fueled by desire, special combination of events championship that happens once in a lifetime against all odds. It makes it less likely, because, well, who lets that happen to them and then win a championship? But strictly speaking, it’s not the end of the world.

It probably just felt like it.

The Hawks were beaten by the Hornets tonight. The Hawks were beaten,  at home, by the Hornets tonight. The Hawks were beaten, at home, by the Hornets, 100-59. Forty. One. Points. They scored 25 in the second half. It was the fewest points scored by the Hawks since they moved to Atlanta. It was the worst loss in just under eleven years. Atlanta has never shot so poorly while shooting so much in their history.

This loss was so humiliating the Patriots felt better about themselves afterwards. This beatdown was so bad, Batman gave up crimefighting because he knew he couldn’t compete. This loss was so miserable, the cheerleaders had to change their name to “support group.” And other bad jokes.

It was, quite simply, the most pathetic performance by a top five conference team in recent history. And that’s saying something.

There are always bad games by good teams. It happens in the course of the 82-game-season. Throw in Al Horford, the Hawks most efficient (best?) player at this point and this isn’t like discovering Blake Griffin on Mars or Kevin Love rebounding gravity itself. It’s just a bad loss by a mid-level “good” team that had a key injury and hit a bad night. But that’s not going to make it any less embarrassing.

I was just thinking earlier this week about how hilarious a Hawks championship would be. Not that I thought it could occur in any universe where logic operates at even a limited capacity. But the idea of Etan Thomas and Al Horford singing Spanish poetry in the locker room (Horford, though Dominican, does like Spanish poetry) is pure joy. The idea of Joe Johnson flashing his opulence and contract in the face of everyone is hilarious, as is Jamal Crawford bawling over the trophy like a baby and Josh Powell grinning while he flashes the “three-peat” sign.  Now, it almost seems like the universe was sending me a message in considering the idea. There are no surprise contenders in this league, and eventually, all but the best are exposed. It just happened to the Hawks a little sooner.

But hey, good win for the Hornets, huh?

I see a bad moon risin’, I see trouble on the way…