This is the year I stop thanking the wrong God for all of my victories, and start thanking that new God that I read about.
This is the year that I stop being such a ball hog, and become a ball suckling pig.
The year that I stop taking shit from Bob Costas. I’m gonna slap the smart-aleck papers out of his hands.
Ceramics at the 92nd Street Y? Now that’s a good class.
This is the year that I start giving back to my community, provided my community ever wakes up and gives me a damned thing.
I need to see Paris before I die. Paris or Sacramento.
This is the year that I tell Coach that I love him, but that I’m not in love with him.
I’m buying a Croatian beach and shipping it to Woonsocket, Rhode Island.
This is the year I date a pediatrician. They have the best magazines.
This is the year I’m named MVP. Madonna’s Vaseline proprietor.
Before the end of 2014, I will buy a calendar with some naked people in it, and those naked people will respect me for it. (Possible outcome: become friends with the naked people?)
I resolve to take some time to throw the ball around with Paul George. Not the NBA player, mind you, but my firstborn son: John-Ringo Paul George. I’m the boy’s legal guardian: he needs me.
This is the year that my pride suffers a catastrophic injury.
This is the year that I gift each of my teammates a free Jet Ski. And charge them $5,000 for the keys.
This year I live by PacMan’s Law. Don’t get to the gentleman’s club before 11AM. Savor the morning.
I will safely and peacefully bring an end to my illegal dog-fighting ring, in favor of a tasteful gerbil judo tournament, in which the gerbils wear appropriate padding.
I’m playing it so safe this year, I’m signing my iguana up for Obamacare.
And hedging my derivatives.
And only buying new albums on cassette, even if that means listening exclusively to Free Folk.
This year I get hooked up with some of these Performance Enhancing Drugs, but only the ones that can be smoothied inside a Vitamix.
This is the year I stop burning fossil fuels, and start burning fossils. Your days are up, Triceratops.
This is the year that I get wiretapped.
This is the year you tell me off, once and for all.
This is the year that I finally read Middlemarch.
But probably not until the off-season.