Dennis Lindsey asked everybody to go ahead and fire away.
They were assembled there and he was sitting in front of them on a postseason panel, not just facing the music, rather asking the volume to be cranked to whatever blast level was most satisfying, most useful, maybe even most hurtful, straight into his bleeding ears. He knew one year ago at this time his reconstruction project had fallen short, broken down and disappointed. The Jazz had been bumped and bruised and busted, facing injuries ...
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