old bill's nod to coach sloan

to coach, or not to coach, that is the question:
whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the sling and arrows of outrageous point guards;
or to take arms against a sea of bitching.
and by opposing, end that: to coach, to lead
no more; and by resign to say we end
the workload, and the thousand daily shocks
that flesh is heir to? 'tis an occupation
of elites to be wish'd. to coach, to win
to win, perchance glory; aye, there's the rub
for in that perfect year, what dreams may come,
when we have won out past this media,
must give us pause. there's the respect
that makes indignancy of such tenure:
for who would bear the whips and scorns of ESPN,
TNT's wrong, sekou smith's contumely,
the pangs of displaced fans, the league's delay,
the insolence of players, and The Spurs,
that cruel bitch-slap of th' asshole lakers,
when jackson himself might his zen quake
with a smug grin? who would there next season dare,
to grunt and sweat under a weary pre-season,
but that the dread of something less than perfection,
the undiscovered title from whose bourne
no player returns, puzzles the league
and makes us rather shuffle those salaries we have
than fly to other markets that we hate on?
thus our fan base doth make little of us all,
and thus the market hue of hi-resolution
is sicklied o're with the pale cast of Teamwork,
and enterprises of great heart and moment,
with this regard the CBA away,
and lost the name of Brilliance.--soft you now,
the fair Stockton? guard, in thy freethrows
be all my wins remembered.