Eight years ago, I dribbled a worn basketball in my cracked driveway.

"Beat LA!" yelled the blue-shirted dude passing on his bike.

"Yeah," I offered, meekly, turning my back to the guy. Try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to tell him the reason I was outside, dejectedly displaying my Rucker Park game for all the neighbors to see.

We weren't going to beat L.A. We weren't even going to have another shot.

My Portland Trail Blazers, the only team I'd shared a city, a home, and a 'hood with, were about to be ousted from the 2000 NBA Western Conference Finals after owning a 13-point lead in the fourth quarter. Portland's pride, the NBA team most often compared to the Green Bay Packers, was staring down the barrel of a Game 7 Shaq attack, and there was nothing the dreadlocked Brian Grant or I could do about it. So I cowered, running outside and avoiding the on-court onslaught.

Eight years have passed since that June. Eight years of Rasheed Wallace's vitriol, Damon Stoudamire's Hummer, Ruben Patterson's sex life, and Bonzi Wells' I-black-out-sometimes middle finger. Eight years of Jail Blazers, Fail Blazers, and Sigh, We Need Someone to Post Bail (Again) Blazers.

That may have made you laugh, but just remembering those names brings a Medusa-stopping cringe to my face.

There's no getting around it — those eight seasons sucked.

Sure, you could argue that karmic fortune got the ping pong ball rolling when 2007's No. 1 pick came to town. Or you could say this Rose City Renaissance began with the 2006 draft, a haul that netted the indomitable LaMarcus Aldridge and the incomparable Brandon Roy. Heck, you could even mark the reboot at Kevin Pritchard's ascension to assistant general manager a couple years back.

But you'd be wrong. Those examples are nice, no doubt — but you're forgetting Zach "Stat-Bo" Randolph, Darius "Head-Bop" Miles, and the 21 "wins" of 2006; you're omitting Oden's microfracture and Paul Allen's bankruptcy; and you're overlooking the still-maligned Chris Paul debacle.

After all, it was just last year that Rick Reilly, pre-Bill Simmonsized at ESPN, told Oden that if Portland picked him, he'd get to see his teammates in orange jumpsuits.
Suffice it to say, I'd rather give Rosie O'Donnell a Thai massage while watching every Nicholas Cage movie than have to relive those years.

Fortunately, Blockbuster was out of The Wicker Man and Rosie's publicist never called me back, so I can look to the '08-'09 season with my innocence and sanity intact. A new season is just around the corner, and just like Bush from the White House, eight years of abject failure are about to be swept into the past, replaced by change, hope, and, above all, some basketball IQ. (Is it any coincidence that Barack Obama's brother-in-law is now the head coach at Oregon State University?)