Just a simple block, in a way I hadn’t ever seen one, in a game I hadn’t expected one, by a player that I didn’t know could do such a thing. Tim Duncan, the game’s best player, a man who made sure that his domination was so mundane as to be irreversible, had another of his imminent game-enders, a flush from just a few feet away, sent back by this impetuous kid with nonsensical tattoos. Ginobili comes off of the handoff brilliantly, going right as he’s not supposed to be able to, making the excitable Amar’e Stoudemire follow the Argentian and lose sight of a man he never should have; Manu makes the perfect shovel pass and as Duncan prepares to snuff out this Suns team’s season, Stoudemire does what he should be able to and makes the play. The ball, flying downward; the Suns lead, this close to evaporated; the hand of Amar’e, bounding upward to get under the dunk attempt in a way I had never seen before, the closest I have ever seen to a human erasing another man’s actions like some poorly thought out scrawling on a notepad. Like that, Amar’e Stoudemire reminded me what this game could do, what he could do, what it all meant. And like that, it looks like he’s done.

2012 has been less than kind to Amar’e, once such an undiluted beacon of pure light in this sport that seems endlessly stocked with flash, a flaming blue star hanging in the middle of the Vegas strip. Reminding everyone exactly how human every one of these “freaks”, these “beasts” are, Stoudemire lost his brother in a car accident earlier this year. Nothing can compare to tragedy of this sort, of course; still, the rest of the year has treated the former Suns stalwart less than genially. When Jeremy Lin began his brilliant stretch of play, Stoudemire was away from the team, grieving his loss; when he returned, he found himself an uncomfortable, if accepting, secondary option to a guy working on a 10-day-contract what seems like moments ago. Prior to and after Lin’s going supernova on the world at large, STAT had looked sluggish and frustrated playing in an offense in which he was not a primary option, while continuing his general ineptitude on the defensive end; many theorized that he had to be injured, and why wouldn’t they, if they had seen what we all had in Phoenix?

As many great writers of this sport have discussed, the beauty of basketball can be seen in the narrative of the possession, of which hundreds make up a game which make up a season, a 24-second period that can at once be a microcosm of a greater storyline and its own fantastic, miserable, tragic, captivating, heroic moment; in most half-court possessions, some version of the pick-and-roll is employed, furthering this idea that every basketball possession is like the last and also completely different. the middle pick-and-roll that Stoudemire ran, most often in his career with Steve Nash but also for a while with Raymond Felton, represented all that seemed possible within such simplicity. After setting the screen and turning the corner, all hell had been unleashed on defenders of the play; Stoudemire’s stunning blend of controlled grace and awesome power mostly left those attempting to keep him from the rim with the unfortunate choice of trying to cheat off of the ball-handler to deny him the ball, leaving one of the greatest shooters ever in Nash with space in the paint, having a help defender from the perimeter double in the paint, opening an array of looks for the Suns’ shooters, or, gulp, try to stop Stoudemire one-on-one slashing toward the basket with zeal. I say that he mostly gave this choice because many times, there was no choice, simply an end point.

His career a sped-up flipbook with frustratingly constant plot twists, Stoudemire has went through so many different eras to his short career that one forgets exactly who he was coming into this league, a preps-to-pro project pick that looked like Shawn Kemp without any of the polish; of course, he similarly ate through the league in his initial campaign, looking none of his 19 or 20 years, or maybe looking all of them as he bounded around joyfully and waited for the next opportunity at which he could swallow the ball, hoop and league whole. When Nash came to replace the malcontented basketball prodigy Stephon Marbury, Stoudemire quickly transitioned from a dizzying frenzy of energy galloping around into Nash’s Mjolnir, the hammer of God that he could throw down whenever necessary to remind opponents exactly what they had to fear. And then the knee-surgery. And the failed comeback, the deep playoff run with Diaw, the reemergence as no longer a weapon of Nash’s but a separate and equally horrifying controller of space, a man who had found the exact limits of his seemingly limitless potential and the sheer genius involved in maximizing it. Phoenix became basketball paradise, where writers of all stripes— uselessly nostalgic, wide-eyed and effusive, seemingly racist— could create their own versions of what this offensive oasis truly meant on its own and to the greater NBA universe.

In the end, I hope that this endures at the image of Amar’e, a wunderkind that honestly developed himself into a mastermind, even if he and his best chance at what we retroactively deem greatness never quite attained what we thought that they could, whether it was due to a detached retina, a violent hip-check that made two men very reasonably get up off of a bench to protect their teammate, the subsequent suspension that seemed to gift-wrap a title for the already formidable 2007 Spurs, or a decimated line-up that just couldn’t outplay the Lakers with its feeble options outside of STAT and Nash. At his best, he could make such nonsense seem so possible without even touching the ball, his presence that imposing and awing. That is what I hope, but I know better.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6orVJc-iPVI

I know that it’s New York and that that half-season of pure, giddy fun will be roundly dismissed when people stare at that millstone of a contract, given in that offseason when everyone wanted their very own LeBron consolation prize and $100 million maybe didn’t seem like the absurdly large sum that it is. I know that that city’s media has little sympathy for bulging discs or dead brothers or poor team chemistry when thinking about why the Knicks can’t just sign Chris Paul or Dwight Howard and make all of this stuff, this salary cap numbers game, go away. I know that Robert Sarver probably thinks that he’s validated in his pennywise ways when he looks at STAT’s newest health concerns. I know that he will be lumped in with Carmelo Anthony if this stretch of Knicks basketball doesn’t go the way New Yorkers want, need, it to go: somewhere, anywhere, near a Larry O’Brien trophy. I know, I know: fair or not, Stoudemire’s legacy among those nameless dunderheads who seem to scribe this sport’s unwritten history will be that of another New York savior-turned-pariah, not the paragon of unforeseen possibility that breathless viewers knew such a short time ago.

This might not be the end for Stoudemire, as his career will almost certainly drag on for a big longer; hell, in this league, with the gifts he had, another ten years seems completely realistic, if not inevitable. He could bring that once-gorgeous jumper basically anywhere if he shores up his defensive liabilities to some (or any) extent and be a helpful member of an NBA team for a very long time. But that genius, that spark that lit up in him, his point guard and every watchful eye that knew when he got space, something beyond magic, something impossible, might happen— that’s almost certainly not going to return with him when Stoudemire himself comes back from this back injury because we haven’t seen it once this year.

Knowing what we know this year makes that moment last season when STAT acknowledged Blake Griffin, an unmistakable nod of approval and gesture of mutual understanding between superhumans, that much more painful, as if Amar’e knew his own moment going nova was coming to its end, soon to be dwarfed into a career of pick-and-pops and shaky takes toward the basket. I can’t imagine what it might be to lose that or any of what he’s lost this year, but I can remember what he had and what he could do: remind people exactly what it is that they love about this truly gratifying game.

Looking at a list of current NBA free agents reads like a Who’s Who of guys who were purported “not to get it”: Antoine Walker, Gilbert Arenas, Rasheed Wallace (retired but reportedly wanting for a comeback), and the crown prince of these lost men, Allen Iverson. While age and lack of productivity can just as easily be blamed for the passing on each of these players by GMs leaguewide, a stain marks every one of them as creatures of another time, one David Stern is only too happy to see passed. Anyone who thinks a talent like Iverson couldn’t still contribute at a minimal level, at least, to an NBA team has not been very attentively watching the last few years of the careers of guys like Grant Hill, Tracy McGrady and Shaquille O’Neal, one-time MVP-level talents that are so naturally gifted that they’ve each found (or in Shaq’s case, did find) their respective niches in which they’ve thrived. The read on Iverson does not simply state that he can’t play anymore; instead, his history of bad decision-making, both on and off-court, and his remarkably bad reputation have led him to scrounging for D-League minutes. Pushing aside all personal allegiance to a guy that defined what I loved about basketball in the Aughts, even if it was plenty of reasonable people despised, how the hell did he go from gifted troublemaker to locker-room poison so quickly? Just three years ago, this guy was starting in All-Star Games, even if the fans seemed to be voting him in out of nostalgia rather than any new highlight footage. Now soccer teams offer him pricy contracts as publicity stunts because, you know, maybe he’ll take it?

Maybe it’s my own conflated wistfulness for this lot that’s stirring up such a response, but this gentrification of the NBA has done some considerable damage to a league once built on its bizarre personalities. Yes, Portland and Indiana had to deal with year’s of season-ticket-sale rebuilding thanks to their respective eras of numbskullery, but in the process, we’re now entering almost-NFL-levels of banality when it comes to player’s personalities. In this new golden era of talent, endless stars have emerged out of recent drafts, from Derrick Rose to John Wall to Kyrie Irving to Kevin Love, but where are the weirdos, the guys that every reporter goes to for a quote that will lift up that night’s copy to something more than just a recollection of stats and lead changes? Even those who show a bit of tenacity, your Russell Westbrooks and Blake Griffins and Demarcus Cousinses, immediately become vilified when they shift from the milquetoast-type of stardom that Peyton Manning turned into years of soporific television endorsements to something more meaningful: a real person.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=itq80z3wyaU

The only thing resembling the JailBlazers of the this era or that brand of brilliant idiocy is the Washington Wizards, who, due to their miserable record and unwatchable play, are honestly more depressing than idiosyncratic. Obviously a devotee of the Rasheed Wallace School of Conditioning and Shot Selection, Andray Blatche nightly turns a diverse array of talents into some sort of PSA against taking oneself too seriously after limited success (so, so limited). Jordan Crawford and Nick Young are almost certainly jumpers somewhere right now, no matter at what time you read this, and JaVale McGee sadly seems like a sitcom trope instead of a true, sensible human being. I’m sure that many who criticize my argument as reminiscing over past misery will look to the WIzards, screaming, “Is this what you want?”, but remember, the Blazers of the early part of the 2000′s played well. As did those Pacers, the Melo-Iverson Nuggets, the “We believe” Warriors and most of the misfits many among us have loved. We only cared about their eccentricities because they could ball, and what passes for dysfunction these days in the NBA is just that: dysfunctional.

Perhaps the advanced stats movement did it, killed off an era of men for whom taking an ill-advised jumper was making a point rather than a coherent decision. The Daryl Morey crew simply will not abide such recklessness in the name of character or watchability or anything so intangible. Maybe Ron Artest or Stephen Jackson or Stern himself closed the lid on them whenever they played into every one of those racist, dehumanizing stereotypes that pervaded discussion of post-Jordan ball on that fateful Detroit night, knocking out plenty of drunk fans and any goodwill that had accompanied their brand of ball. The deluge of stars that followed them has quickly made their memories fade like so many AI shots at the end of a shot clock, replacing them with guys who request their steaks well done and cut up before served and slap stickers with Bible verses onto backboards. It’s probably for the better, probably made the game easier to watch, more efficient, less cluttered with racial tension, certainly more profitable, given it a higher profile. But every time you see a superstar take a remarkably poorly articulated media question this postseason and watch the mental gymnastics that the player goes through lest he respond back too rudely, remember: Sheed would have said something.

Image courtesy of Neil Kremer via Flickr

When Mike Brown first occupied the movie director’s throne left by Phil Jackson in Los Angeles in the summer of 2011, a bevy of legitimate and nonsensical worries began to crop up about the former Cavaliers coach and Spurs assistant. Some thought he wouldn’t be ready for the magnifying glass (and mischievous child trying to start a fire known as the press accompanying it) that goes with working not only in the nation’s second-biggest market but also with the NBA’s most storied franchise. Others worried that the Lakers’ de facto leader and seeming misanthrope Kobe Bryant would not take too kindly to taking orders from anyone other than the best coach of all-time, who he still battled with on a constant basis. The silliest problem followers of the purple and gold had with the hire stemmed from the fumbling, kid-gloves approach that Brown and he rest of the Cavaliers organization took to handling superstardom in Cleveland, where LeBron James and his camp appeared to run roughshod over anyone in the Midwest who stood between them and what they wanted, which were mostly warmer French fries apparently. That fear looked to be completely lacking in context, altogether unaware of the wildly different situations in LA and The Forest City. The only thing all onlookers were sure of the Brown signing was that it meant more prominent roles in the team’s offense for the Lakers’ bigs, a move ostensibly quite obvious given Bryant’s age, Brown’s conservative playcalling and the immense talents, both literally and figuratively, present in the Lake Show’s interior. This all seemed painfully clear to everyone, everyone except Bryant who is leading the NBA in shots attempted per game and might just be tanking one of this current Lakers teams’ last chance at a ring.

Kobe Bryant’s name remains synonymous with a great deal of things in both casual basketball fan and junkie circles, some of which are unrepeatable here. Two of those labels, though, come into play here, dependent on which color of glasses one looks at the output this year by this generation’s most divisive player. The first tag that comes to mind is that of “warrior”, as Bryant once again plays through another miserable and noticeable injury, on his shooting hand no less. One who see the way Bryant’s been playing this year could easily walk away from watching a game like last night’s against the Suns, an old foe of Bryant’s Lakers on its last legs that the Mamba torched for 48 points (this young season’s leading point total as of yet), and say, “Man, that dude just isn’t going to be beat.” And said observer would have a point: how is this hobbled, rapidly aging superstar able to continue this ridiculous production season-after-season, deep-playoff-run after deep-playoff-run? Are they putting something in these damn Cortisone shots? Can self-contained fury really function this long as motivation for a star that’s basically accomplished everything that any NBA player could ever hope to in his career? How in Jeebus’ name does this fella keep doing this?

But if one falls on that other divide of Mr. Bryant, he or she’s likely to ask a wholly dissimilar question: why in the hell does he keep doing this? That brings the avid follower back around to that other relevant classification of Kobe: “chucker”. Or “gunner” or “ballhog” or just plain “selfish player”. Whatever one thinks of the Kobester’s capability of hitting game-winning shots or “putting a team on his back” (a very old back, by the way), most can agree that an injured 33-year-old taking more than a fourth of a team’s shots (more than 3/8ths in last night’s dominance over the Suns) isn’t likely to be conducive to any extended periods of winning, including in an upcoming postseason. The fact that Bryant leads the league in shots per game on a team featuring two of the game’s best scoring big men (one of whom is a 24-year-old stud who represents the team’s future but still continues to put up the best numbers of his career right now) on a team with one of the league’s slower paces only serves as a glaring symbol of the offensive poison that Bryant’s shooting pours along with the healing elixir he provides with every one of his shots. “Hero shots” are called such for a reason, and that reason is not that the shooter’s always valiant and audacious, simply that he thinks that he is.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b0uQwG9ycF0

Admittedly, later into his career, Bryant’s become a more efficient scorer in terms of where he gets the ball on the floor, favoring operating out of the post both this year (using about 16% of his possessions of post-up opportunities, per Synergy Sports) and in the latter years of running Jackson’s Triangle Offense. But even these flirtations with smart shooting come hand-in-hand with a nod to Kobe’s more ridiculous tendencies, such as using up 32% of his possessions on isolation plays, something to be expected in Brown’s new, evolving offense but a giant number nonetheless. Why is a player who plays with Pau Gasol and Andrew Bynum using his possessions like he’s Carmelo Anthony in the hollowed-out corpse of a D’Antoni offense in New York?

The more ardent Kobe apologists will likely rest on the argument that most do when debating the wisdom of Bryant’s on-court decision-making: what would Mike have done? Anyone taking a close look at the last years of Jordan’s run with the Bulls and Bryant’s numbers so far this year will see a favorable comparison, as Jordan also put up an insane amount of shots given his age (averaging 23 a year in his last three runs with the Bulls, coincidentally the same as Kobe this year) and the amount of wear-and-tear on his body while posting similar all-around numbers and PERs. However, ignoring Jordan’s propensity for being a more focused defensive presence than Bryant (which should almost never be ignored in comparisons of the two), one must remember that while Jordan’s late 90′s Bulls were flushed with offensive talent, he and Pippen represented the offense’s only real initiators on-the-ball(though Toni Kukoc obviously served that role off the bench), with mike being the team’s best post player in his final days in Chicago. While Kobe’s a more than dangerous weapon out of the post, he has the ridiculous luxury that Jordan didn’t of having two soft-handed, quick-footed, endlessly intelligent giants camped out in the paint for his team while still gunning at every availability. Were Mike in his shoes (which he wouldn’t be, because Jordans will always look better than Kobe’s ankle-breakers), I doubt he’d have had the same hesitance to throw the rock inside.

Like most young men who were 16 at one point and love basketball, there was most certainly a time when Kobe Bryant was my favorite basketball player, a renegade superhero akin to Batman firing up the kind of shots most wouldn’t dare take in a game of HORSE in actual NBA games and draining them in so many frustrated, sighing faces. He still defines NBA masculinity, toughness and stubbornness and genius all in one kind-of-an-***hole vessel; he’s still Kobe goddamn Bryant. But he only remains so by virtue of his game, by virtue of his willingness to do whatever it takes to win at all times, and right now, as he heaves up contested jumper after contested jumper, even as he makes more of them than he has in a few years, he kills that Kobe Bryant, the one whose “hero shots” really gave the term new meaning. Of course, maybe that’s the point: maybe the fact that he’d never mind attention like this is exactly what makes him Kobe goddamn Bryant, and if so, bless him for it. Just don’t expect any new banners in Staples Center anytime soon.

I sincerely don’t think I’ve ever heard a preseason press conference in which an NBA head coach doesn’t mention that his team’s “going to run this year”; no matter how patently false this may be, no matter how little you believe Doug Collins or Nate McMillan or Larry Brown, we all ooh and aah in false anticipation, hoping that this will be the one year when every team just decides to fling the playbook to the wind (oh, and Mr. Collins’ would take one hell of a heave) and start flying. That this never comes to pass is immaterial because we’ll all nod, smile and hope the next year in the exact same manner, even if there’s a new guy on the sidelines lying to us about how fast his team will be. But why the hell don’t they just run? Obviously, personnel reasons to be the most prominent explanation for most coach’s preternatural inclination to slow that ball down and reconsider this whole “speed” business, but what if a team seems almost intrinsically built to give chase to the fast break, begging the viewer to ponder the dominance of every easy open-court bucket, only calmed by the completely nonsensical reluctance that this team shows to running? That team was the Miami Heat, that frustrating coach was Eric Spoelstra, and that era is over.

Too often in the 10-11 season did Miami find itself applying common sense to a team that didn’t really make any. Playbooks reigned over play, patience over power, execution over exuberance. What this team had done in its construction, brilliantly risk everything to try something dangerous, innovative and eventually genius, it had completely counteracted in its first year of play. LeBron James, always labeled a wing while his style had negated the relevance of that term as applied to him a million times over, found himself lingering on the wing, idly watching pick-and-rolls develop while waiting to step into a open three-point shot, a waste akin to making James Joyce stop digressing from the main idea or featuring Stevie Wonder on a song to diddle away on a harmonica. Making James and Wade look rudderless effectively left Spoelstra to act the same part on the bench, his parted, greased hair and oversized suit making him seem like a kid dressing up as his dad for work, if the kid’s father were Pat Riley. The entire enterprise of the 2010-11 Miami Heat felt flawed in nature, a forced obsession with syntax when a little bit of free-form poetry was so obviously needed. Apparently it took some weird peyote trips with some gnarly shamans to do the trick, but Miami has finally transformed into the rancorous, fuel-injection-leaking chimera of an offense that it always terrified the NBA into thinking it could be.

Oh, and how glorious has the Heat’s descent into madness been. Even minus the hand-tap, double-lobbed alley-oops and wrap-around, behind-the-back feeds to a thundering Chris Bosh (yes, I just described that guy as “thundering”), the Heat look to be the NBA’s only team that’s high-powered offense will not come at the risk of losing its trapping, eye-poppingly violent defense; in fact, in another preseason coach cliche, the defense of the men in red actually seems to be powering the freak show that they pull on the other end, exemplified by the bone-crushing blocks that Dywane Wade has been handing Ray Allen and Dirk Nowitzki that are inevitably turning into layups or something more inconceivably brutal at Miami’s rim. So little that has succeeded for Miami’s offense has looked premeditated, and I say this not to denigrate the job Spoelstra’s done but to bolster it, to note that instead of shoving all of the talent he had into frustrating positional roles, he’s unleashed their most horrifying, Earth-devouring weapon: unconventionality. Yes, LeBron is a point guard shaped like a big man with breakneck speed and unlimited range; allowing him to function as all of those roles simultaneously rather than one per quarter or game or play means that all of the craziness that it takes simply to explain his game becomes all of the raw nonsense that no defense comes equipped to handle.

Maybe it’s ridiculous to be patting a team that seems almost predestined to win a ring on its back for finally using its limitless skill in a way that actually reflects the grandness of it all, but after seeing the routs handed to Boston and Dallas in the last three days, one can’t help but feel the need to give his or her compliments to the chef.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3N8qc_bktRE

I’ve never even been able to consider the thought of missing NBA games. The very notion gives me crackhead shivers, the kind that you get in the morning after a particularly long night of dehydration and/or dancing. As a man with his fair share of not-so-enviable bad habits, though, I know that simply satisfying every carnal urge does not make a man (or lady) happy, at least not for very long. In the end, a little bit of contentment cannot replace the lasting serenity afforded by some sense that all is right, for the most part; therefore, I watch this NBA lockout from afar with just enough sense to know that a quick, ridiculously unfair end to this misery Wednesday will not sate me. This thing has to end with a little damn justice.

Am I forgoing my own happiness for a ton of millionaires’ pocketbooks (theoretically, of course, since I have no actual say in when this thing ends)? Sort of, yes, but those millionaires are our millionaires, the only reasons people like me and everyone reading this stay up far past our bedtimes to ooh and ah at terribly though-out J.R. Smith jumpshots, the only justification for entire DVRs full of local sportcaster banality and meandering storytelling, the only rationalization for grown men waking up wives, roommates, children, neighbors and friends of all stripes with infinitely mockable sounds that seem the sole means of articulating the deep joy caused by seeing Blake Griffin dunk. How can we the viewers abide the unending concessions made by a union that appears to simply be clinging to its last bits of dignity, as that same organization continues to be pounded into submission by far richer, even more privileged bullies out for blood on some misguided, warped mission of vengeance and arrogance? There has been more than enough dirt flung around during this entire charade of a negotiation to point fingers at both sides of the table, waiting for a single target at which to aim the fans’ collective darts of frustration, both at these rich men’s petty bickering and our own impotence to bring back the thing we love so dearly, but the owners and the league have clearly been pretty unequivocally smug while playing the villain, daring the players to court public sympathy while inundating the press with deliberately misleading information.

And what villains they’ve been. Ultimatums, looming giants of their trades (Paul Allen, of business; Michael Jordan, of basketball; Dan Gilbert, of jackassery), ludicrous requests eventually transforming into still terrifically unfair policies, complete lack of anything resembling negotiation in good faith‒ the owners have displayed a Darth-Vader-like scroll of reasons to hate them, all with the confidence of a lot of men used to winning quite assured they will be doing more of the same once this deal goes through, whenever that might be. Yes, the players have been incompetent at times, self-effacing at others, showing the kind of indecision and infighting that made the league so certain that the union would cave like a souffle, full o hot air just waiting to be released at the first hint of a puncture in its protective shell. But the players just keep giving and giving and giving, all to keep seeing that finish line nudged just out of their reach every time a deal seems ready to be finalized. Wealthy men or not, labor has been run over and left for dead in the last half-century of this nation’s history, and this NBA brawl fought by men in droll, gray suits looks no different.

But, as Bethlehem Shoals so eloquently put it, “if millionaires don’t have labor rights, then really, who the **** does?” Could a decertification vote spell the end of NBA basketball as we know it? Should those men’s bank ledgers, already so much more replete than my own, weigh at all in a battle of my ethics versus my ability to watch the thing that’s kept me content, joyous and sane for the last twenty years? Does it seem even close to scrupulous to compare the struggles of these affluent young professional players of a game to the thousands upon millions of workers worldwide who have fought tooth and nail for the rights of every member of the proletariat? We know the answers to these questions, but I cannot help but think of what this fights represents in a climate in which “class warfare” is so liberally used as a buzzword to denigrate the very real problems of economic disparity in this country and those around the world. No, I don’t think protestors and politicians and working-class Americans look to professional sports when trying to make sense of the current political and sociological climate, but these games are covered with such passion, written about with such (admittedly, sometimes pointless) fervor, for a reason: the sports we watch symbolize something to us, whether consciously or not. That something differs from person to person, but to be able to see this microcosm of the very real, very important battles being argued over and fought every day gives us all a chance to better understand exactly what it is for which we’re all aware or unaware we’re fighting: some fairness, some damn sense to all of it. Is it so crazy to desire a little justice, even when faced with losing that which maters to us most?

They’re the new you, and it’s damn near inevitable they’ll experience déjà vu too. Fight, and you’ll never survive; run, and you’ll never escape. So just fall from grace.

Jay-Z, “Fallin’”

Anyone’s who’s ever felt that terrifying, inevitable twinge that accompanies one’s own replacement intimately knows the fury that can quickly replace the deep, excruciating pain of being deemed yesterday’s news or, even colder, obsolete. “What does he or she have that I don’t?” “Why am I not good enough for them anymore?” Most of the reproach thrown in the general direction of a successor seems petty, as much a product of the past’s sudden confrontation of its own mortality as genuine disdain for the new, but then there’s the very real, exposed vitriol: “I’m getting replaced by this lame?”

That hatred can run deep, quite reasonably so, especially if the former party’s greatness in whatever field or situation is inarguable, such as that of the living gods of our chosen religion of basketball, Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley, Magic Johnson. These men’s own legacies immediately evoke the kinds of superlatives generally saved for, well, gods, as they well should. Who among us has ever possessed the hoops genius that these men possess, and therefore (or so the argument goes), who should know more than these guys about what defines basketball greatness? And what have these roundball royals deigned information important enough to come into accord to decree to the public? Um, LeBron James is not all that great.

The most recent of these attacks, or perhaps gentle chides from James’ elders, came from Johnson, who was speaking to a crowd at the University of Albany when he, essentially unprompted, went after the self-proclaimed King by claiming he wouldn’t win a championship and had issues performing in the 4th quarters of games. Anyone who’s ever had a conversation with any casual fan has had heard far worse, more humiliating takes on James’ situation and character, but when those words escape the mouth of one of this game’s best regarded titans, even if he’s not so well regarded for the use of his words, we will pay attention, especially those of us for whom that better establishes an existing agenda. LeBron sucks, even Magic said it. Even Michael said it.

No matter the specifics, older men will invariably criticize the young men doing the same things they did when youths themselves, so there’s nothing inherently malevolent about what Jordan, Barkley and Johnson have said about LeBron. I mean, Oscar Robertson’s pretty much spent the last 20 years telling all of us why everyone we enjoy to watch sucks and how much better he could have done those things, and no one in his or her right mind would dare question the dignity or virtue of the Big O. It’s not just that LeBron’s being criticized by these giants of his game; it’s that the answers are so vigilant, the condescension of a veteran evaporating and quickly being replaced with bile, that there can be no question as to how these guys feel about LeBron.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhycjXvFDy8

What part of the game is this? Magic’s unsolicited (and highly applauded, at least by the crowd present) shots fired at James this week proved a much dirtier, more obvious fact about these old men: they’re just a tad bit shook. I can remember just six or seven years ago, when Michael Jordan wouldn’t dare publicly allude to the greatness of a certain Kobe Bean Bryant, as the general public was still of the (admittedly misguided) belief that Bean had a chance to eventually topple His Airness from his throne, even going so far as to call the likely outcome of a one-on-one game between the two in their respective primes “not a contest“. This year, Jordan and Johnson both can’t help themselves from gushing over the greatness of Bryant, at least in comparison to his parallel, LeBron James. Like a declawed, defanged zoo animal, Bryant’s age has made him more likable to these old men, most likely because he won’t be surpassing them on any lists of “best ____” anytime soon.

LeBron James, on the other hand, still has a legacy waiting to be written, and by dismissing James’ playoff woes of the last couple of years as proof that the kid just isn’t up to snuff, Johnson and Jordan make the point that there was ever a discussion in the first place as to where Bron’s legacy stands, an absurd conversation based around a player entering his eighth season of NBA basketball and just his 27th year of life (although he’s still 26, he’ll turn 27 on the 30th of December). Why does his legacy matter so much to these two? The answer in regard to Jordan is abundantly clear, at least on first glance: Jordan’s the G.O.A.T., and James still has the chance to be considered such by the time his jersey hangs in the rafters wherever the hell it is people decide they don’t hate him by the end of his career. As for Johnson, his game has so consistently been compared to James’, and almost always as a clever nod, a way to remember the greatness of Magic without actually having to remember any of it. For Magic’s ego, this has to be a devastating blow; before retiring in 1991 for the first time, he seemed on the fast track to being considered the greatest player ever. And then it all happened, the HIV, the backlash to his return, the reign of Jordan. This he could (or rather had to) accept, always able to console himself with the notion that maybe, had he not been forced out of the game by powers greater than he, he would have captured that throne from Mike. Regardless, he was an all-timer, in the pantheon with his rivals Bird and Jordan and the greats of yesteryear like Russell and Chamberlain. So who the hell is this two-bit raging buck of a kid, and why is his bullish, smothering game being compared to his, so stylish that he could only be identified by a form of legerdemain?

And that’s where this animosity really sits; that replacement, the guy or gal taking that spot who you were going to hate without fail for the simple fact that he or she is there, cannot be a repellant, unbecoming person as well. The consequences of this person being, oh, let’s say an arrogant prat seemingly hellbent on saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong people? Probably somewhere along the lines of answering questions at your University of Albany speech that had nothing to do with said prat by completely and utterly crushing the guy, just to hear the crowds cheer for you again, and not that miserable so-and-so.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BzfZyJU2v6c

Earlier this year, the closest thing basketball nerds have to a cult hero, Scottie Pippen, had the audacity to compare his own teammate, the unquestioned greatest ever, to James, even claiming that James might just have the talent to be better than the best. His words were criticized roundly and resoundingly by essentially anyone associated with traditional sports media; what the hell had Scottie been smoking to even consider the notion that anyone, much less this annoying prima donna, could be better than Mike? The crowds’ rants and tomatoes thrown were all vindicated by LeBron’s performance in the Finals, almost tempting all of us who have seen the talent, the ability to make it all happen so easily, to distance ourselves, surrounded by the doubt that never fazes those who unwaveringly choose sides, prepared to call Michael Jordan the greatest basketball player ever until six feet under the Earth. But then we hear the shouts of these worried, weary old basketball gods, and we know: that irreverent punk can still do this.

Today is likely the biggest day professional basketball’s seen since Michael Jordan hung it up. As asinine and knee-jerk as that might feel at first glance, at what other moment in this sport’s history has the game teetered so delicately between prosperity and irrelevance? Even as hellfire rained in Detroit on that fateful night in 2004, no one paid enough attention to do anything other than dismiss that night as another example of those tattooed thugs further blemishing a game that had already been ruined by people who just weren’t and couldn’t be Magic, Larry and Mike. No, today’s proceedings will either present the NBA with its oh-so-necessary segway into a continuation of last year’s return to glory or provide the rest of the non-hoops-obsessed heads with a reason to once again bury the game that evokes such fickle bandwagon-ness already. And at such an important moment, only a $100 million strands between such terrifyingly divergent paths (and what’s a hundred million between ballers and billionaires, right?). Thankfully, each side of the lockout talks understands the gravity of this moment, and that’s why everything will be settled today. Right?

Actually, despite all of the talks of “nuclear options”, “blood issues” and “supertaxes” (well, that last one just sounds like fun), neither side of these negotiations has acted like much is at stake besides revenue and cap regulations, an almost dementedly narrow view of an imbroglio that could turn several subcultures on their heads. Those of us who often dabble in the even seedier, grubbier world of American politics are quite familiar with the feeling of helplessness that currently seems to be wafting through NBA fan circles; the political heads have all more than gotten used to the idea that someone with more power may be deciding something that appears to gravely affect us with the flippancy of someone turning a light switch, but for sports fans, this is somewhat new. Yes, teams make trades and changes and fire coaches, but every summer or fall or spring, our favorite comes rolling back around with the same familiar faces doing the same amazing things that make us smile and point and guffaw and wonder how the **** he just did that. NFL fans, a much larger contingent than our clan of dichotomous, bickering few, similarly felt the tightening screws of a lockout, but because football’s profit margins rise so much higher than those of the roundball, even their nukes seemed somewhat defanged because, no matter what, FOOTBALL WOULD BE BACK. No doubts; just a matter of when and what quality.

It is that very urgency that doesn’t just appear to be missing from these NBA lockout negotiations; it seems like these guys think there are more pressing matters than putting basketball back on the court. And with a group like this, who can feel security that today’s verdict will be in our favor, that not only this league’s image will be saved, but that we can just go watch some damn pro ball, regardless of initial quality? Not I, and I don’t think too many (even Vegas odds are currently on no games at all) stand in disagreement as those two intractable sides stand in disagreement. Tomorrow is the day; even two weeks gone will leave an indelible stain on this league, like marked bills that just don’t hold value any longer. Let’s just hope these “blood issues” and dirty money don’t keep us from our beloved any longer than they already have.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLJeKCA8Iq4

Like most hardcore NBA fans, I have now given in to my anger. I want blood. Only, I don’t know who to blame – the players’ agents, the players, David Stern, or the owners.

Here’s what I do know. Someone is trying to drink someone’s milkshake and its leading to missed NBA regular season games. Even greedy people would agree that missed games are bad for business. Player’s don’t get paid, owners don’t sell tickets and the NBA loses fans.

However, the blood sucking, milkshake slurping types let their competitive spirit consume everything… at great risk to the group. I want to win, I want to subdue and defeat my opposition. And I’ll gladly drink your milkshake. It’s killer instinct, not greed, that has brought us to the edge. The greedy would simply settle for the best deal possible without the great risk of losing big.

As an outsider, I don’t pretend to know which party is to blame. And, because I want blood, I’ll have to blame them all.

Via Adrian Wojnarowski of Yahoo! Sports:

Five months ago, Adelman never would’ve imagined he’d coach the Timberwolves. He was 65 years old, wanted a contender, and the Wolves are a long, long way away. Well, $5 million a season can change a man’s mind. It’s no crime, but understand: The money mattered here. Probably mattered the most. Yes, Adelman wanted to coach Kevin Love(notes), but he had no intention of doing it on a discount. In the end, money overrode everything…

It all just leads me to wonder what the hell happened in Houston? Wrapping one’s head around Adelman’s departure and subsequent reappearance in the cold of Minnesota seems something beyond impossible; it’s been asked here many times, but why again did the Rockets expel a man who is most likely the team’s best-resumed, most storied and likely just downright best coach ever? What could be the team’s line of reasoning, you know, outside of the very practical and logical rationales put forth in these very pages (complete control given to Morey, more playing time for younger Rockets in need of development, general ennui)?

Rick Adelman’s run in Houston could be deemed nothing short of successful, given its context, but that all depends on through which context the viewers choose to see Adelman’s tenure in the H. Every year he ran the team, injuries haunted Adelman, like so many good men in Houston before him, as he saw his best players crumble before inevitably leading his squad to what could be considered respectable given the terrible states of his teams (a first-round exit seemed OK since Yao was gone; a game seven loss to the eventual champs was a success because Yao and Tracy were both gone; a couple of .500+ seasons can’t be scoffed at after seeing who he ran out there. Right?).

For whatever reason, that lack of stability began to reflect poorly on Adelman’s run with the team, somehow indirectly implicating him as a leader of overachievers. This unfair, Larry-Brown-esque reputation with the team made him seem permanently temporary, whatever that might mean. Never did it seem that his continual votes of confidence from management were anything other than reminders of the utter competence of Houston’s man stalking the sidelines, rather than promises of a prolonged relationship with Houston.

Now, Adelman likely enjoys free reign in a city badly in need of any sort of reins; immediately, one expects that his visage will likely supplant that of mad genius/outright madman David Kahn as the face of the Timberwolves organization. There has been a lot of talk about the gratuitous amount of cash involved in this hire, and rightly so, but it would be negligent of the press to miss exactly what Adelman will gain in Minny (besides a handsome sum) that he lacked in Houston (and almost certainly would have in LA): impunity. At this point in his career, hasn’t he earned at least that?

Allen Iverson cannot be understood as anything less than a fallen icon, a hero stripped of his honor thanks to a history of bad decision-making and a poisoned image. Stories like his rarely end well, but his didn’t really start all that well. And after the appropriately swagtastic climax of his career, a made jumpshot in an NBA Finals game that ultimately proved insignificant, an era of NBA basketball finds itself washed out as its greatest, and perhaps smallest, warrior fades into the obscurity associated with aimless wealth and reckless indulgence.

Ten years ago, an NBA in which a still-healthy, mostly capable Iverson had no place seemed unimaginable, as most truly shocking things do, I suppose. This one, though… the fall of grace was so gradual, so expected by the time we were talking about watching live video streams from Turkey and wondering how many strip clubs a 35-year-old man could shut down without getting a a bit bored, that the tragic just became mundane. The NBA got to rewrite the narrative, making sure the Spurs and Lakers were (rightfully) remembered as the giants of their era. New wing players flourished with realm-expanding rule changes, shifting all perimeter players (particularly point guards, particularly lightning-quick ones with the ability to drain floaters and any array of mid-range jumpers under duress) into an era of unparalleled dominance. Suddenly, the game was more fun (it is), and those years of dribble-heavy, isolation-leaning, unbearably tedious ball (read: Iverson style) could finally be put in the rear view.

How the hell did a guy who represented so many different things to so many different people become so passe, such a relic of the now mythologized post-Jordan lean years? Those rules that seemed to completely favor Iverson and his skill set actually did improve his production, with a couple of his peak PERs (in 04-05 and 05-06) coming after the point-friendly changes, but consequences soonemerged for the rapidly aging, ever-injured burst of instant offense. For one, Chuck (isn’t that just the most fantastic nickname for Allen Iverson? So spot-on because of its weirdness/double entendre) not only benefited from the lack of hand checking on the perimeter and new attention to essentially any contact with a driving perimeter player: he also had to guard the guy on the other team who could do those things. This would require a new wrinkle in all of the league’s wing defenders, and Iverson had never really been all that great at moving his feet and staying alert on that particular end of the floor in the first place. Routinely, his teams, particularly his later era Nuggets, would score like mad while ultimately finding themselves utterly rudderless when confronted with actually keeping the opposing squad from doing the same.

His stubborn refusal to adjust had always endeared him to the peculiarly diverse, but similarly like-minded fanbase that he had built (Vince Carter once famously remarked that he may have always been the league’s highest vote-getter, but Iverson was the most popular player in the NBA). Just as that attitude created his mythos, it tainted his future, damning him as the greedy stat-stuffer and magnifying every time he played that part. He couldn’t adjust to the new defense he’d have to play or the new defenses built to stop him or the surge of the efficiency-rooted statistics movement in pro basketball or a new generation of fans that had somehow skipped him and remembered Jordan as “their guy” to fawn over as the hyperbloic deity of their childhoods (and, honestly, who doesn’t want to claim a little piece of the winning-frenzy-of-a-human-being that is Michael Jordan?). Once, he was identified with so much that trying to caricature him would have seemed unfair to all that had been unwittingly pinned on him: thug culture, hip-hop, blackness, youth culture, hip-hop, rebellious and over-privileged athletes, insouciance, hip-hop. So quickly, every fault revealed by the media or the man himself turned into another case of Iverson doing what he did best, generally muck things up and set team chemistry (and other “intangibles”) aflame. Comparing icons to bright stars, what with the relatively short lifespan and utter explosion by that which gave the original power, seems almost lazy, but when looking at the weirdly and suddenly tragic tale of Chuck, does anything describe this situation better than the phrase “burnt out”?

More of this type of nonsense can be read by following @JacobMustafa on Twitter or Throat Sung on tumblr.

And I understand that this is a major issue throughout our culture that is more concerned with the president’s hairline and timber of his voice than necessarily with the changes he will make to our way of life, but I still don’t really care. And you can’t make me.

This fundamentally is the current problem with the NBA. Capitalism turns eyeballs into profit margins. The more attention a thing garners, the more real-life actual money it stands to make. The league could not survive without your local sporting goods store selling out of Dirk jerseys, all the idiots with Kobe’s face tattooed on their forearms, and all the other idiots who had LeBron’s removed from theirs.

The NFL season starts this week, on time, the players and owners having happily reconciled and returned their sport to its rightful place as America’s favorite bone-crushing entertainment, while the NBA, currently, doesn’t even exist at all.

So in honor of the lockout and the money the league stands to lose, I’ve put together a list of all the things N.B.A. currently stands for, because, as of right now, it certainly doesn’t stand for basketball.

The National Blood Authority

If you live in Australia and need to give or get blood, plasma or platelets, these are your guys. If you want to know more about haemovigilance or just feel like chatting up the Senior Executive Team, you’re in the right place. If you’re looking for high-flying dunks or ridiculous tattoos, probably not so much.

The National Beef Association

If you were in Newark this May, own a farm, or just really hate cows or your blood pressure, you may have been lucky enough to check out Beef EXPO 2011. (Also, in case you were curious, beef is apparently a “nutritionally action packed meal ingredient?”)

Northern Business Associates

I’m not really sure what this is all about, but they meet at Country Waffles Restaurant in Redding, CA “every Tuesday at 7:00 a.m.” and list “candy and gift baskets” as a service they provide. Last second three-point attempts? No. Colored cellophane and those orange peanut shaped marshmallow things? Yes!

The National Boxing Association

If you like boxing and need a job, this NBA has “a full and part-time employment program through a system called ‘Internet’, including free counseling service for persons without skills.”

Nationwide Biweekly Administration

Ok, so I’m pretty sure this one’s some kind of credit scam, but there is a smarmy guy on their home page who talks at you like a tiny floating internet Princess Leia telemarketer, if you’re into that sort of thing.
The National Bank of Anguilla

Admittedly, I had to look up where exactly this is. But even though Anguilla is a tiny island in the West Indies, I’d be willing to bet at least a some of the folks who live there have heard of basketball, and I’d also be willing to bet that at least one or two out of that group hope this bank isn’t the only NBA they hear about this year.

The moment LeBron did the thing he did and partook in the entire world’s revulsion, a paradigm shift occurred, even as the plates beneath our feet stood still. Mere weeks later, Chris Paul, Carmelo Anthony and Amar’e Stoudemire laughed off the concept of an AAU-like run in New York, and ever since, essentially any superstar not locked into an 12-year-deal has been floated around in trade talks in hopes of igniting another Miami Heat in some major market somewhere (and for the 85th gajillionth time, Miami is no major media market. Pretty girls and beaches just live there). In the shuffling about that took place last midseason, the seeds of the Superteams appeared planted, as Melo took his talents to the Manhattan Project in blue & orange, while surprise guest Deron Williams found himself the subject of endless “Brooklyn Net” Photoshop jobs in hopes that the very image of the league’s second-best point god in the semi-inspiring uniform will remind future free agent prospects that future Nets home games will be played outside of Newark. The leak had begun, and the new world order would soon reign over all. Cue dystopic symphony, prepare for the five-team epoch.

But that fear’s validity holds up like velour in a thunderstorm because this has been a league of super squads before this Frankensteinian patchwork of Superfriends, and the L will gladly survive this one. The 82-83 Los Angeles Lakers possessed a frightful four Hall-of-Famers. Twenty years worth of Celtics teams cornered the market on “defensive-minded”, “crafty” and “having three of the 10 best players in the league”, all in completely different decades. The beginning of this batch of hundred years featured a twosome that proved almost completely unfair when measured against its competition, only to be felled by its own arrogance and indolence, Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O’Neal standing as a couple of titans whose influence over a league of their inferiors could be reasonably compared to that of Bron and Wade’s. Yes, the league generally bends to the will of these powerhouse franchises, but not once has the integrity, much less the quality, of the game been harmed by a few basketball geniuses suiting up in the same mesh shorts a few 100 or so times a year. Instead, these teams redefine their surroundings, generally encapsulating the most prominent, representative ball of the era. The ineffable fluidity of the 70′s Knicks’ halfcourt offense defined their moment(s) in the sun, while the constantly fluctuating, probing attack of Phil Jackson’s Triangle gave definition to a Bulls offense that was too often attributed to Michael first, second and 15th. These Heat, as hideous as they could be at times, seemed to mark the progression of the convert-point-guard, the man whose finds everyone only because he was deigned great enough to get his own so easily it seems almost sinful. With them, we would enter the promised land of True Shooting Percentage and Usage Rates, when the most boring, mind-numbing factors to our game would be celebrated as the game-changing factors they’ve always been.

The scarier truth, though, is that the truest reason that Wade is wrong, and that no seismic twist has rearranged the sport as we know it, is likely that there was no path to follow, as the Miami Heat didn’t win anything. Conference Finals, yes, true and true, but in the real NBA that will exist after this miserable excuse of a lockout expires, how many teams will have the capability to build one of these Hydras? Even the Knicks and Nets, whose ostensible sole purpose appeared to be adding big names to glom on to those already in place, look to be beggars in a market that will likely favor the small-market organization hoping to retain its star power. The new NBA landscape that Wade envisions simply doesn’t exist other than in some endorsement deal’s wet dreams, making his observation less of an admission of guilt and more of a stab at relevance in the face of recent defeat.

No, the NBA Wade hopes to have created doesn’t quite exist yet. Because as Dwyane Wade sees stars aligning in similar patterns to he and his pals in the Justice League of Miami, the rest of the L watched the Finals this June, as a single star and a collection of disparate yet intelligently crafted parts struck a chord of brilliance. Wade is right in his assumption that this is a league of observers, keeping keen eyes on those who might be determining the road for the champions of the future; he just may have the wrong team.

Michael Pina is the author of Shaky Ankles, a blog dedicated to the wonders of the ‘crossover’ dribble, basketball’s finest move.  Michael has also contributed to Hardwood Paroxysm and Both Teams Played Hard and edits the Knicks blog, Buckets Over Broadway.  What ensues is our conversation…

Rahat: The crossover dribble move has long been my favorite “thing” in sports.  From dunks, to touchdowns, to offspeed sliders, there is a lot to be fascinated by in the world of athletic entertainment.  But to me, nothing quite holds the intrigue of the crossover dribble.  There is the obvious aesthetic appeal, yes, but the move represents so much more than that at a social level; it might be the greatest innovation in the game’s history.

When I found your blog I was excited.  So I must ask, what inspired its creation?

Michael: I suppose in some disconnected way, it all started years ago, when I was just a little kid who loved basketball. Going out and playing everyday at recess, I wasn’t necessarily shorter than all my friends, but for whatever reason, every time I attempted a shot a perpetual fear of it being swatted back in my face popped into the forefront of my brain; it was rare that I would shoot at all. Then one Sunday afternoon when I was in the second grade, the crossover appeared in front of me on television. It was either Tim Hardaway or Kevin Johnson who just absolutely destroyed somebody, drove to the basket, and finished on an uncontested layup. No hand in their face. No defender near. So I thought to myself, if I can practice that one move and get it down tight, having a shot blocked wouldn’t be the least of my problems. Fast forward 15 years and the crossover has become an evolving manifestation to everything that’s beautiful about basketball. When executed to perfection at the game’s highest level of competition, it’s a combination of showmanship and productivity, popping in for rare appearances here and there. I knew I wanted to create a blog about the NBA. My way of differentiating it from the dozens upon dozens of wonderful ones already out there was the same thing that helped me evade third and fourth graders on the blacktop. I’ve since outgrown the embarrassment of having my shot blocked in pickup games, but the need for a crossover still stands stronger than ever.

Rahat: Kevin Johnson was my favorite player growing up; Tim Hardaway wasn’t far behind.  Before I really jump in, let me ask you—and this will sound sacrilegious—is the Hardaway “killer” crossover perhaps overhyped out of romantic reverence due to it being the first modern iconic crossover?  Someone in the NYTimes video—which might have been the best documentary piece I’ve ever seen—mentioned that what made it great was how difficult it is to master…and I kind of scoffed. No disrespect to the move—it’s an amazing move and incredibly effective—but I think it’s much more difficult to master some of the other ones that are out there.  Am I way off on this?  People talk about him coming down the court at full-speed before doing it, but that’s not really true.  He slows down, and then it comes. In my opinion, that he goes through his leg (instead of bringing it out in front) is what makes it simpler because you’re not required to be able to control the ball with your arm at a straight angle; it’s easier to hold onto the ball when the arm is diagonally tilted back like that.

Michael: Regarding the great admiration that people hold for Tim Hardaway’s crossover, I understand where you’re coming from, Rahat. He’s a man who’s cross wasn’t necessarily “better” than some others we’ve seen, (Iverson and Marbury to name a couple) but Hardaway’s name grew synonymous with the move. He could knock down shots, and penetrate and kick with the best of them, but for whatever reason Tim Hardaway is strictly remembered for his crossover, while others who were equally potent are remembered as more complex offensive weapons. I will disagree that on the fast break he could go between the legs and cross someone at full speed (thanks for coming out Chris Childs) as smooth as anybody to ever do it—one of the most difficult moves for ball handlers everywhere. In terms of difficulty, I’d agree that the between the legs hesitation is one of the easiest to do, but it’s also the ballsiest. If the defender doesn’t bite, you’re left with few options in a no man’s land, of sorts. I think my favorite variation is either the in and out fake cross or when a player drives hard to the basket, stops on a dime, seamlessly brings it back between his already spread legs and is greeted with a wide open jumper. Don’t hesitate to stop me if I’m getting carried away.

Rahat: My personal favorite is the wide, hanging Iverson crossover.  Like some sort of sword in his hand, he’d wield it out of nowhere.  It was fascinating in that the move was literally a cultural phenomenon.  Suddenly, everyone in the park was doing it, and every NBA point guard afterwards had his own rendition.  While I’m no historian, I don’t feel like the league has ever seen anything like the Iverson crossover, wherein it just took a collective audience by storm from its arrival.  And I think, honestly, it ruined things for me; I was spoiled by it because I don’t really appreciate crossovers as much anymore ever since it was banned.  When jaws drop today over some ankle being snapped, I can’t really get as excited – it just doesn’t look as good to me as when the ball is almost up near shoulder-level like it was for everyone cerca 1996-2000.  And of course, carrying it that high also requires a greater degree of skill…

Michael: Oh, no question. That move was a piece of art. In a way, though, I’m glad it was retired from the league. Phasing it out as the NBA successfully distanced itself from the self-obsessed egotistical era was smart. The overall game’s just so much more watchable today, and I know that crossover was just a tiny slice of the pie, cutting it out ended up making the whole a bit sweeter. I’d put Kobe and McGrady’s shoulder high crosses a notch below Iverson’s, and Steve Francis maybe a little below those. Also, Vince Carter had a nifty one. It’s kind of ironic that as that move was eliminated from the game, a majority of the guys who utilized it were never really the same. Not that that move made Tracy McGrady a great scorer or anything, but the parallels between those who used it and who we retroactively look down upon as more entertainer than focused basketball artist, is funny. Shifting the conversation a bit, who do you think are the five best to ever use a crossover dribble? In order.

Rahat:

1. Iverson
  2. Kobe
  3. Tim Hardaway
  4. Wade 
 5. Jordan

Couple of thoughts – I’ve only been watching basketball since ‘95, so I don’t know of any of the old school guys that might have done it, hence the list is strictly confined to the modern era.  Secondly, on Kobe – he doesn’t do it much anymore, but he had one of the best in his younger years before the move was banned.  Finally, on Jordan: He had already checked out before the modern crossovers really took off, but watch some old clips from his pre-retirement days. He consistently used a primitive form of the move that was absolutely devastating. (Instead of bringing the ball out with his arm though, the move consisted basically of just stepping in one direction and then going the other way.)  In fact, I’ve hypothesized before that Jordan may have been the first superstar to ever really consistently make use of the move.

Which brings me to my next point: it was almost a completely different sport in the 70’s and 80’s.  Watching clips, guys dribbled down the court with one hand in straight lines and could only score by out-quicking their man (something impossible to do in today’s league of near athletic parity on the perimeter), or pulling up for a weak, ugly jumper.  It’s beyond me why purists romanticize about this era as something emblematic of true “skill” and “fundamentals”. Beauty to me is the ability to go anywhere you want on a basketball court and turn your defender inside out.

Michael: Yea, man. In terms of visual elegance, the game’s definitely evolving for the better in terms of one on one battle. But I think when people reminisce on skill and fundamentals, they’re referring to the team aspect of unselfish efficiency. (Not overall efficiency, as the popular philosophy way back when was the more possessions/shot attempts a team had, the greater chance there was at winning. The Dallas Mavericks were a tad retro in that they made their mark gift wrapping extra passes and playing off each other throughout the playoffs, but in the end they needed a transcendent player to win. Teamwork was important, but not the main factor.) I can’t say I’m going to defend basketball that was played 20-30 years ago over today. The present day’s version is just so much more exciting—at least it was. Most notably, discounting Pete Maravich and possibly Tiny Archibald, there really weren’t any ball handlers interested in creatively dribbling there way around the court. I can see why people don’t like the crossover of today. But those people are probably really grumpy.

Stay tuned for Part 2 of ‘On the Crossover’

I think the rational choice would be to trade one of James or Wade for Howard.  Not that it would ever happen, but it would give the Heat an ‘even’ team with star power at every positional slot; the redundancy at the wings would be alleviated.  But upon reflection, the choice between Wade and James isn’t as obvious as one would think.  The initial reaction is that keeping James, and trading Wade, is the no-brainer; the former is younger and…better.  But what if we buy into the personality analysis that indicates that James just isn’t a winner?  It’s already been established that Dwyane Wade can win on the biggest stage; Lebron James crumbled.  Regardless, the issue is moot – the Heat would never trade either of their stars, if even for Howard.

The talk now is of Howard to the Lakers with LA allegedly–according to some unverified sources–offering Bynum and Odom.  It would naturally be a slam dunk for the former champs, but as many have wondered, what point does it make for Howard?  I suppose being a virtual shoe-in for the next two titles would be somewhat of a perk, but isn’t the point behind relocating to set up his future?  The Lakers will be in shambles upon Bryant’s retirement and a 29 year old DH12 would be back at square one.

If you’re Howard, you stay firm, like ‘Melo before him, and follow Williams and Paul to wherever they may land.  But one thing is clear – like I said about James, he’s absolutely in the right to not tie himself to the Magic; that franchise is in shambles and only sinking further.  When you’re 35 and ringless, no one remembers ‘loyalty.’

I have a lot to touch on so I’ll start first with tonight and this series.  The key lesson, I think: if you’re a child, or a teen, or anyone else desiring to achieve improvement in your basketball game…learn how to shoot.  Learn how to shoot a basketball.  Learn the proper form.  Learn how to do it on the move.  Don’t neglect it – learn how to shoot.  I’m not saying to neglect the ball-handling drills or the jump training – do all that too.  But learn how to shoot.  When you watch Dallas spread the floor with Nowitzki, Terry, and Barrea, the hoop looks like an ocean.  On the other end, when the Mavs went into their zone, it seemed almost hopeless to imagine Miami ever scoring.  Learn how to shoot.

Thoughts on this series?  I don’t even know what to say, really.  I’m still speechless over what was, by Lebron James, maybe the greatest disappearing act in sports history.  I have never been one to buy into character analysis, but I might just have to admit that the guy just might not have it.  I can’t think of any other explanation.  The rational part of my brain wants to attribute his struggles to Dallas’ zone–which played a large role in the outcome–but at the end of the day, he could have atleast tried to put his head down and force the action.  There were times he didn’t even look like he wanted anything to do with the ball.  Scratch that.  By “there were times”, I mean “there were entire quarters.”  You almost felt bad for him.

Some more random thoughts: am I the only person alive who actually likes hearing the game commentary and interviews?  My AT&T U-verse was out so I had to resort to watching the game downstairs with several people whom I don’t know.  I couldn’t have been more annoyed by the ruckus.  Is it odd of me for wishing everyone would shut up so I could hear what Jeff Van Gundy just said about a crucial possession or what Jason Terry thought got them the win?  Is it really that much to ask?

I was desperately hoping for a Miami win, just at the least to ensure a Game 7.  It’s depressing thinking that this is all over.  But wow, was it ever a struggle to suppress any fondness for Dallas.  And another thought – it felt too right that the crucial part of the game was ended with Jason Kidd in the post.  The NBA will miss Jason Kidd.

What we learned: my first inclination was to feel a sense of hope and optimism that Miami can be beaten.  Then of course you remember that Dallas has an all-time great of their own–basically this generation’s Larry Bird–playing at maybe the highest level of his career, a future hall-of-famer in Kidd, and maybe the most clutch role player of this era in Jason Terry.

This postseason presented a lot of interesting questions and conclusions pertaining to how a team should be built.  First there’s Memphis – you want to feel a sort of validation that success can be had without a true superstar; but they ultimately lost maybe because of the lack thereof.  Are we shooting for the 2nd round or the title?  Then there are the Bulls who taught us that despite having the league MVP, defense does not suffice: it’s absolutely imperative in the modern age to be able to put points on the board.

I think the Mavs had the right model.  A shot-blocker in the middle with a gimmick zone and a plethora of deadly shooters on the other end.  I’ve always felt that because two-way players are so rare, you target offensive weapons and leave the defensive end to a smart scheme and a good shot-blocker.  You can’t afford to play defensive specialists on the perimeter in today’s NBA.

The scheme seems sound enough but then there’s the issue of going out and getting a Dirk Nowitzki.  And we’re right back to square one with the Rockets’ biggest dilemma.

LeBron did things too differently, made things look too easy at times and so much harder than they should have been at others; he was quite simply like nothing else any of us had ever seen prior to him, so the juxtapositions got even weirder (Charles Barkley, Wilt Chamberlain, Shaquille O’Neal, Thor) as his game evolved into some unexpected, semi-confusing blend of vision, violence and omnipresence. He seemed bigger than the sport so early, even as the rest of the world had to be prodded into caring about professional basketball as the Spurs and the Pistons of the world (or more accurately, the Spurs and the Pistons) battled it out for titles that no one who wasn’t a diehard was watching. Because of this, his has never been a comfortable place in world of sports radio talk and Deadspin: he didn’t win enough, he passed too often, he cared too much about the wrong things and too little about the right ones, he wasn’t Kobe and sure as hell wasn’t Mike. It was only this last summer, in an event that somehow became bigger than this sport, at least to the mass populace, that LeBron finally looked comfortable (while looking altogether uncomfortable) as himself. Not as a savior nor a villain; no, LeBron James evolved into what he had always been ready to become: a celebrity. More specifically, a celebrity of the 21st century.

In the current world of celebrity, there is little room for plaudits when it comes to our stars. While there have to be the occasional foils (and yeah, the good guys are the foils), the Kevin Durants and Sandra Bullocks of the world don’t sell magazines. No, that is left for the black-hatted men of the world, and in yet another way, basketball has never quite seen one like LeBron James. Players, including the best players in the league, have been unlikable, arrogant and prone to Prince-Philip-esque bouts of foot-in-mouth syndrome before LeBron, but never before has there been such easy access to every foible, every blunder, as there is now. Remember when LeBron called that girl retarded? YouTube does. Can you believe LeBron ran into his coach like that? Well, of course he did; he’s done it before, and here’s the video to prove it. Scrutiny isn’t just there every time Bron makes a mistake; no, the critics eye him like the cute girl at the bar who seems like she’s pissed at her boyfriend, waiting for any sign to pounce. And for them, LeBron has put on a laser show of theatrics and idiocy, putting together a year of screw-ups unrivaled in its consistency and forehead-smackitude. From the clouds of dry ice surrounding his initial public photoshoot to “announce” the signings of himself and Bosh to his preening-cum-spiritual moment kneeling down on the hardwood after downing the Boston Celtics in five games, James has provided a new media age desperate for a chance to grab at his coattails with a flowing robe of personal denseness, begging us all to grab our share.

Of course, as a celebrity, he can not be all pariah because there is little dynamism in such a story; if we all agree we abhor him, why prattle on about it instead of just being done with the brat? Well, inherent in celebrity lies a great deal of hero worship, and James can engender that even better than he can the hate. Only through James’ greatness can we justify our unhealthy obsession with him; had we not expected more, a man who scored 8 points in a Finals game would generally be infinitely lesser of a story than that of a feverish giant emerging from his infirmity to help his team overcome a massive lead in the fourth quarter. In fact, as a social media, we have forgotten how to celebrate genius without immediately denigrating it somehow, throwing in a “of course they won, they cheated to come together” or a “the Mavs have to win because the Heat are full of CHOKERS!!!!” with any genuine praise, even when confronted with brilliance as often as we as fans of NBA basketball have been in these 2011 NBA Finals.

A strange detail I’ve found pretty laughable over the last year has been that I finally figured out the comparison for LeBron James that makes the most sense, and the person isn’t even a damn basketball player. Instead, only the concurrent brilliance, complete lack of self-awareness and general showmanship that Kanye West provides can rival the kind of vitriol that James inspires, that he almost seems to desire. When I see West bombastically spew drivel on network television, trying to make a statement and be universally appealing at once while simultaneously failing at both, a tone of complete acceptance and rejection of all-encompassing fame comes through clearly, the same tenor that pervaded a great deal of LeBron’s post-Decision interviews. It’s an awkwardness that leaves viewers feeling less than attracted to the “personality” we’ve all been following so closely. And it is all made right when the next sample kicks in, when the next fastbreak alley-oop is completed. We wanted this, and now that our celebrity is here, we take him and stab at him and claw and delight in his pain and his glory as we will.

This era’s been desperate for its own Jordan, and it has gotten it, in its own way. Jordan represented a new paradigm, a perfection and a sheen that mirrored the gloss that the NBA desperately wanted to project at all times. As the calendar has turned several times and David Stern’s empire now posts updates on Facebook 20 times a day, LeBron has given us what we all wanted: an easily-despised, easily-worshiped superstar, complete with a buffet of flaws and sublimity, available for all of us to probe, poke and prod 24/7. Hate him accordingly, but don’t forget to check TMZ for all of the juicy details later.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ok5pkkwDs-w

Durant is gone, fishing or perhaps at home, biding his time until his day comes (or perhaps when Russell Westbrook is dealt for something resembling a competent NBA point guard.)  In the wake of the destruction, Dirk Nowitzki emerged, bringing his Mavericks to the Finals on the strength of one of the most impressive stretches of basketball ever played.

Dirk is great, a figure of whom discussion will be held for the next three decades, a likable man with an irreplicable repertoire; Red94 wholly endorses Dirk.

That’s why it’s so upsetting, is so obnoxious, that he’s been pulled, is being used in the mainstream media’s ever-persistent need for narrative.  Every mention of the man, whether in print or broadcast, is suffixed by remembrance of his resolve, reflection upon his loyalty to the Mavericks; “he stayed with one team; he didn’t go team up with other superstars.”

Do we really have to do this?  I think everyone has gotten the point by now that the Miami Heat are ‘evil’ for joining forces.  It doesn’t need to be drilled home through constant subtle reminders.  And let’s be honest: the comparison is a bit disingenuous, to say the least.  No, Dirk never played with a player of Dwyane Wade’s caliber, but he wasn’t exactly running with Mo Williams either.  Nowitzki’s Mavs teams during his tenure have been stocked to the brim with All-Star caliber options (Nash, Finley, Howard, Harris, Walker, Jamison, Marion, Butler, Kidd, Terry etc.) by an ownership obsessed with success. Furthermore, the Big 2 (James, Wade) weren’t exactly blowing up Dirk’s cell to join them in South Beach; what options did Dirk have this summer that made staying in Dallas so benevolent?

While I’m falling on deaf ears, can we please for once just appreciate players for who they are, irrespective of their peers?  The need for narrative and juxtaposition is childish and tired.  Dirk Nowitzi and Kevin Durant are great players for who they are and what they’ve accomplished, not because they do things differently than Lebron James.

I’m happy.  We seemed to be on our way to a sweep and that’s never a good thing.  I’m following my rule of rooting for the outcome which extends the series.

My first thoughts coming out of this one were regarding Dirk.  Out of the mega-stars in today’s game–not just the stars, but the surefire HOFers–he’s the only one, at least for me, regarding whom you don’t really realize there’s some gravity in what you’re watching, if that makes sense.  I have to remind myself, “this guy I’m watching is basically Larry Bird.  People will be talking about him still after thirty years.”

Another question: if the Mavs fail to win the title, where does Dirk rank in history?  Has he surpassed Barkley?

• After the Wade-James alleyoop, which will likely be replayed close to 10,000 times over the next few days, I thought to myself, “how can this be fair?”  How can this team be beaten?  Seriously, they weren’t supposed to be here this year, or at least were supposed to learn a lesson at the hands of the Lakers.  If they draft well–and by ‘well’ I mean acquire anyone under 30, how can they be beaten?  I think you’re only hope is that 1) the new CBA makes it tough for them to use that MLE (because if they can, it’s all over.) and 2) the 28-year-old Wade steadily begins to break down.  The Chicago series taught us you can’t beat them with defense.  (Then again, this Mavericks series is about to teach us you can’t beat them with offense.)  I think you’re only hope is a lineup with five deadly offensive threats and a philosophical commitment to defense.  You absolutely must have capable scorers at both the ’4′ and ’5′ (sigh Marc Gasol, if only ye were not restricted…), an assasin at the ’1′, and a wing that will make James/Wade work.  Check on the latter counts.
• Fascinating hearing JVG rave over Mike Miller tonight as that’s a guy I would have never thought he would ever have considered acquiring during his time here.
• More on that point: one of my favorite things during a JVG broadcast is to take note of who he favors.  You get to learn a lot about the dynamics of those McGrady teams.
• I was watching Game 6 from 2006 on ESPN Classic for a bit earlier today and it felt weird, like when you look back at old high school photos of yourself.  I will say this: Alonzo Mourning’s game that night was one of the most inspired performances I’ve ever seen during my time watching the NBA.
• Can you believe Jason Kidd is 38?  I remember when he first entered the league, in ’95–I was 10 at the time–I thought it was funny to think to myself, “will he change his name when he’s no longer a kid?”  In retrospect, that was pretty lame…but wow, Jason Kidd is 38!  It’s even more amazing that Grant Hill is still active too.  (No Glen Robinson jokes.)
• Tyson Chandler: Van Gundy talked about him having a Garnett-esque impact on the Mavs this year which is absolutely painful to hear considering the Rockets were reportedly within inches of acquiring him this past summer.  Consider: he’s under 30.  Is it a stretch to say Chandler would have been a franchise game-changer, if healthy?

Despite my local pride, I just can’t bring myself to dislike this Mavs team.  I can’t fight off the urge to…gasp…like them.  Josh Howard is gone – that was the enabler in this entire process.  Tyson Chandler is a big I’d kill to have.  Shawn Marion gives us all hope that maybe your elbow doesn’t really have to be in and Barrea’s an icon for us little guys.  You then have Jason Kidd, the only guy in this league who deserves a title as much as Grant Hill, and Dirk, the most underrated superstar in league history.  You can’t help but love Kidd and Dirk: there’s a beauty to Kidd’s narrative that inspires – anyone can learn to shoot with hard work and injuries can be conquered through self-reinvention; Dirk is beauty through understanding of spacing and angles.

I admitted to myself today that I love watching the Dallas Mavericks play basketball.  This took a lot out of me but the denial was too much.  This begs a crucial dilemma: my viewing interest vs. local bragging pride.  What hurts matters is that I find Oklahoma City absolutely unbearable to watch.  As I tweeted earlier, Russell Westbrook might be the only man alive capable of making Steve Francis look like Steve Nash.  I want to keep watching Dallas play, but more than that, I just can’t bear any more Thunder basketball this summer.  At the same time, I can’t risk Dallas winning a title.  I have too many friends from Dallas.  In this case, one trumps two, when the most recent of the two came in 1995.  If the Mavericks win the NBA title this year, the Houston Rockets do not even get to sit at the adult table in Texas.

Rose’s 2010-11 run has unquestionably been something worthy of endless documentation, an endless spectacle of hasty violence and craftsman-like precision, and there can be no more dissection of the yearly popularity contest he won without further denigration to the one-man offense that Rose seemingly produced out of thin air every time he passed halfcourt, occasionally at blinding speeds. Derrick Rose most certainly stands for all of the things with which he has been attributed by a lazy media who may have pre-written all of those laudatory words for Kevin Durant this October; he is modest, softly charming, mild-mannered and the exact opposite of all of those modifiers on the court. As aforementioned, when on the hardwood, Rose tends to be one of the more methodical rim chasers this game has ever seen, his every move in anticipation of a counter and his touch around the rim unequivocally sublime. Few have combined the blink-fast legs of his with that unmatched ability to finish in the history of this game; however, of those who have, one remarkably walks the same courts in the same era and seems fated to match up with the MVP in the upcoming Eastern Conference Finals: a man who claims rights to a nickname Rose might have had he been born a few years earlier, Dwyane Wade.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_g3OoTu8rUE

Before Rose’s so-fast-it-must-be-premature ascension, Wade had long been a favorite of NBA heads looking for a superstar to call their own. All that Rose brilliance around the cup could be seen nightly by League Pass freaks fiending for some organized chaos on a beeline toward the promise land for years in Miami, and his remarkably early ring (Wade won his first title in his third year, the same one in which Rose is currently) lent him the mainstream credibility that drooling over Monta Ellis 360 layups and Jamal Crawford pull-up threes could not. Wade had that great Radiohead thing going where he could be universally beloved and still have a cadre of supporters who thought that you didn’t appreciate their favorite thing nearly enough (for years, when people asked me to name the human being with whom I would like to trade lives, I would automatically say Wade. Handsome, rich, accomplished and living in Miami. I’m still just trying to pull off any one of those); of course, this was all pre-Summer of Bron, before we knew about the world’s least-liked best friendship, before we had seen what Chris Bosh looked like without dreads (even weirder). At that point, media saturation and a July-worth of preening along with his superstar pals would claim Wade’s underground king status, leaving a lot of young men with bundles of adulation and nowhere to put them.

It makes perfect sense that Rose would soon collect those fanboys as his own, becoming one of the NBA’s most controversial figures without actually creating any controversy. Both Rose and Wade possess a will to penetrate that most perimeter players simply don’t have, or at least don’t have the capability to actually realize. Though they use somewhat different methods (Wade is the better ball-handler, generally losing defenders with a combination of speed and ball trickery on his way to the basket, while Rose prefers using his lightning-fast spin moves and ungodly up-and-down celerity to bully his way to the bucket), their unending drive to make the ball go farther and farther into the paint links the two Chicago natives at the hip. While the name “Michael Jordan” is invoked at the faintest whisper of a talented perimeter player, it pretty hard not to think of that guy when discussing the best player since him to don a Bulls uniform (no offense, Ron Mercer) and the actual new face of the Jordan Brand. They both mirror his fire, his creativity, his lack of other passions besides winning. But where Wade makes every play look like an expression of his personal vendetta against those who would dare doubt him, Rose just drives, twists and releases. Maybe it’s a two-handed flush after splitting two defenders, maybe it’s a one-handed floater taken with a center breathing on his face; his expression remains unchanged.

In a way, this should further develop the myth of the 22-year-old MVP; instead of celebrating or taunting, the timid point guard needs to get back on defense. He can worry about looking cool (admittedly, this is ostensibly one of the Miami Heat’s chief concerns) when the W is posted, when he’s done working. When Dwyane Wade ran through the Bulls in 2009 for a single-handed double overtime win in which he dropped 48 points and 12 assists (and a running, game-winning three hit only after getting the steal) , he climbed on top of the scorer’s table in blind fury as his crowd of compatriots roared alongside him, and screamed, “This is my ****!” repeatedly as a throng of supporters certainly did not try to dissuade him. Rose, having helped the Bulls scrape together the comeback that even allowed them to catch up with the Heat and take a lead, could simply watch, a rookie in awe of the superstar that had just forcefully obtained control of this game and done some superstar things. Last year, as Rose prepared along with a group of talented young men to snatch a gold medal in Turkey, Wade was endlessly courted by the Chicago team he had seemed preordained to lead, but alas, South Beach called. Rose got to see this as well, his team searching for a backcourt mate for their young franchise point guard, and whenever that opportunity passed, Rose seized this new one, the one in which he could truly claim this as his own team, where the ball ran through him, almost to a fault. No, the Derrick Rose robot never needed nor necessarily wanted the help that the Three Kings in Miami were offering, not if it meant relinquishing what he was trying to make.

They wouldn’t have worked in the backcourt together, their games too similar to know what to do without trying to dive into defenders and collect calls (a skill Rose only picked up this year, his third). But what seems clearer is that it wouldn’t have worked in that locker room because something about these guys, no matter how similar their games, differentiates their dispositions. Where Rose clicks and whirs, knowing he can make his defender (and the other four looking at him) react to the wrong thing, shift in the wrong direction, anticipating possibilities and seizing, Wade aims to humiliate, to disintegrate, to know that that which once stood in his way has been felled. It’s an odd  way to read his game, but it’s apparent in the gore that takes place in every successful Wade play. Rose cannot aim to destroy that which he doesn’t even accept as a battling force; no, the problem that he observes is solved by the end of any successful possession, and when not successful, he just tinkers until he makes it work, eventually, no matter how much effort or ugliness it takes.

In the midst of Chris Paul’s blitzkrieg of the NBA in the first round, Eric Freeman (currently of the ineffable Ball Don’t Lie crew) tweeted that while Derrick Rose would get rid of a soon-to-detonate bomb by hurling it deep into the ocean, Paul would diffuse it. To bludgeon Freeman’s analogy, Wade would grab the bomb and swallow it whole, Jim-Carrey-style, with a smirk on his face as it nonchalantly and safely exploded in his stomach, which is, of course, lined with adamantium.

All year, I have questioned why, despite the obvious highlight-iness of Rose’s game, I simply was not captivated by his nightly reel of freak moves in the same way I was by Wade’s endless bag of tricks, the two Chicagoans giving me such dueling depictions of the Second City. Was it the stolid, serious workmanship of Rose that aimed for professionalism even when at a level of brilliance that few have ever encountered? Or was it the swaggering, snarling beast that Wade could leash or unleash at anytime, a city that could be defined as much by its greatness as by its confidence? It’s only now, as the two likely stare each other down in a dream ECF, that I can truly get the contrast. Swag alone does not account for why a Rose two-handed gorilla slam just doesn’t bring the cache that Wade’s cabbage-patch dunk did; it’s all in the details. Those details that Rose makes sure he nails every night, without fail, because he wants to win more than anyone, because his Chicago is the city that works. Those same details Wade gets and masters, but only while reminding every single one of us that this is his ****.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHQZrMOt-1E

Jacob Mustafa is a regular contributor to Red 94 who’s probably playing pickup ball badly somewhere right now, pumping himself up with rap lyrics.

EDIT: This post has been edited thanks to a key detail, the location of Wade’s 48-point game against the Bulls, being incorrect. Thanks to readers for pointing out said error.

]]> http://www.red94.net/nba-mojo/6753/feed/ 12 http://www.red94.net/nba-sports-infidelity-miami-heat/6711/ http://www.red94.net/nba-sports-infidelity-miami-heat/6711/#comments Wed, 04 May 2011 19:49:46 +0000 eric todd http://www.red94.net/?p=6711 In sports, rooting is fundamental. The inherent dualism of winning and losing encourages the taking of sides. This involves, for most people near major television markets, an implied sort of regionalism. Just as the youthful process of developing the tastes and associations that we all eventually cobble into a fluid concept of identity requires choosing what we feel most closely resembles ourselves, or the selves we perceive in ourselves, rooting also involves a certain degree of attachment. There’s a distinct thrill in referring to our favorite teams as ‘we’, a connection that allows us to impart meaning onto something so obviously arbitrary.

This attachment, like most attachments, suggests a degree of loyalty. And loyalty in this western culture is most often seen as a virtue, as a trait to be admired. We often hear the expression, “loyal fan(s),” passed around as euphemism implying “good fan(s).” This understanding of morality also implies its opposite as an equal truth. If loyalty connotes dignity and strength of character, then conversely infidelity suggests a lack of virtue and the trappings of an intrinsically weak character.

The problem with these types of value judgments is how we apply them to sports. Our emotional attachments to our favorite sports teams lead us to perceive players not as the employees of major international corporations, men with jobs and self interests like the rest of us, but as symbolic representatives of our cities, our states, ourselves. The disconnect here between fans and players lies in the fact that sports, at its heart, is business. The players on your favorite team are not from your town. They aren’t the owners’ sons. They don’t know that you bought their jerseys and have watched every game since you were eight. They are men with jobs, seeking to stay employed and seeking the best possible working relationships they can find.

Free Agency, in particular, seems to be troublesome in this regard. We all look forward to the excitement of the offseason, of the possibility of our teams’ improving through the addition of new talent. But with addition also comes subtraction. Seeing a former player for our favorite team in a new uniform, representing a different place, can be disconcerting. An amicable departure, at best, leaves us with a certain longing, like an old friend who moves away. But less congenial circumstances can leave us feeling jilted, betrayed, like the sight of an unfaithful ex-lover with someone new.

No one has been hit harder in recent years by the perception of this kind of sports infidelity than Lebron James. Despite the fact that no one has yet made a reasonable argument that James’ former job with the Cavaliers was more favorable in terms of potential for on-court success than his position with the Heatles, nearly everyone seems to have been personally offended by his choice to leave. James is nearly universally seen as a villain, a soulless mercenary who betrayed the love and trust of an entire region, and not as a man who simply saw an opportunity to get a better job and took it.

Now, with the Heat having taken a 2-0 series lead on the incumbent Eastern Conference Champs, what I’m left to wonder is how winning might rearrange this narrative. If Miami wins a title this year or next, will the ire that James and company have born over the past year be softened? Will Lebron James again be appreciated as the fantastic round-ball warrior that he is? I have to think that he will, that winning might eventually absolve him of his particular crime.

And I also have to think that all this is pretty unfortunate, that someone was publically derogated for seeking a better life.

Throughout his remarkably stable career, one of the most consistent knocks on Nowitzki has been, and continues to be, the Charmin-like-softness of his particular game. A 7-footer who shoots jumpers (spectacularly well) and plays mostly on the perimeter (where he is most effective and tremendously dangerous to opponents), Dirk has consistently tried to make headway with the unfair tag plastered across his immense German frame, but despite improvements in rebounding (and even defense), All-NBA selections and a freaking MVP award, the sweet-shooting big fella cannot escape the concept. At this point, the word has come to define him, and his teams, almost as much as his wicked jumpshot or hilariously foreign-looking hairstyles (high five for xenophobia!).

The injustice committed along the way, disrespecting Nowitzki’s unparalleled abilities, could not be graver. Instead of attaining the cult status that LeBron and Kobe did as one-man-shows (admittedly, Kobe’s did seem to arrive posthumously as the new, “mature” Kobe Bryant collected his championships), Nowitzki found himself routinely chided for not bringing teams with second-best players like Jason Terry, Michael Finley and Josh Howard to the promised land, all the while posting some of the more ridiculous shooting percentages for a jumpshooter of this era of professional basketball. There have not just been moments of transcendence for Dirk, either; over the last decade, seemingly no other star has so consistently carried teams to stellar seasons with0ut the proper complementary pieces. LeBron only kept up his team’s brilliance for a couple of years before taking his… skills to Miami. Wade and Bryant were mired in years of mediocrity between the banner years, and Duncan and Shaq always, always had the help. Nowitzki himself has been the main cog in a few great ensembles, although the only Hall-of-Fame candidate with whom he ever played would have been laughed off of anyone’s ballot when he was an actual teammate of Dirk’s, but the perception, or the benefit of the doubt, afforded to other stars of his ilk simply isn’t there.

In 2011, Nowitzki, despite his finest efforts this season, will confront his own “Groundhog Day” of matching up with some deceptively powerful lower seed and being bucked out of the playoffs that the Mavericks looked so prime to take over just months ago. He will elevate his game for the playoffs, as he mostly has throughout his career (outside of those six games in Oakland that made us all believe in the power of insanity that Golden State had firmly on its side). And his teammates will likely fail him, unable to provide the dynamic, lockdown defense that made the Mavs so dangerous earlier in the year. Or maybe unable to score as efficiently in seven games where the opposing team is fully cognizant of the Mavs’ depth and weapons (basically, no one will be getting blindsided by Roddy Beaubois). Or simply not be as good as the fiercely determined Portland Trailblazers or the ineffably large Memphis Grizzlies. No matter these circumstances, Dirk will be blamed, blamed for his “softness”, for his inability to “will” his team to wins, for being white and being a jumpshooter and playing his game that has made him so great for so long. Unless something other than the expected takes place, Dirk Nowitzki will be damned.

Post up, push until the defender gets out of defensive position while trying to take away the post-up, spin off, fade away and shoot (with an arc so high that every made bucket seems like a one-off surprise). We’ve seen his moves, lots of times. We as basketball heads have all yelled at him at some point to bring those defenders deeper into the paint, to stop settling for (ridiculously efficient) fadeaway jumpshots. And if we’ve been watching long enough to figure out what he’s going to do, we’ve been watching long enough to figure out that it works. That Dirk Nowitzki’s version of winning basketball may not coincide with the pre-written narratives we’ve established of what “winning basketball” means, but no one cares because his peculiar set of moves continue to produce. We’ve learned that to be effective, one does not have to fit oneself into the established order of good in basketball, that even a “soft” German who does not play defense very well and takes a lot of shots in places he ostensibly shouldn’t can be one of the greatest basketball players of his generation. With all sincerity, I hope we’ve learned exactly how little we allow ourselves to enjoy greatness if it doesn’t look like the greatness we wanted.

Howard’s stardom has always been relegated to some sub-standard form of greatness, a jangling parade of praise dragged down by the endless caveats strung to his feet by his litany of critics. He has no post moves; he just jumps high. He’s a hypocritical Bible-thumper who would always find his niche but never could make the league his own. Well, until he has; this year, Howard boasts some of basketball’s most impressive numbers along with an actual game that’s evolution can be seen in every nuance, every shift of angle that the skinny-legged Adonis has picked up in the L. Advanced statistics make Orlando’s paragon the obvious choice for the game’s best two-way player, as he ranks second in the NBA in PER, eFG% and individual Defensive Rating, first in Defensive Win Shares and WS/48 while placing his team at third in the league in Defensive Rating even after his GM Otis Smith shipped out his best defensive teammates for those models of effort and hustle, Hedo Turkoglu and Gilbert Arenas. For lack of better phrases, Dwight Howard is having what we usually call an MVP season, yet his name has only been bandied about as it always has: as a marginal choice, one that deserves to be considered but not actually rewarded. And whom have we writers deemed the favorite for that most coveted and irrational of regular season prizes? None other than everyone’s new favorite player, Derrick Rose.

And why wouldn’t the springboard-footed blur of a human be the league’s favorite? Rose does everything fans expect from a superstar: he attacks the basket with both ease and gusto, does marvelous things when his shots become contested and wears a Chicago Bulls uniform. That’s basically all we want; the problem, though, is all we want shouldn’t be confused with all we need. Maybe it’s a bit self-important (for both me and the NBA) to make the MVP some sort of referendum on how NBA fans should appreciate the game, but an award predicated on choosing the league’s best player for a year (though I don’t know that anyone’s actually sure about what an MVP is supposed to be) probably should not go to the guy whom we have all decided we like the most (unless he’s the best player. I need to catch my breath from all of this parenthetical writing, though). Rose’s MVP push, as strange as it may seem, recalls not the run by Chris Paul in 2008, but rather Nash’s two wins in which he was given credit for essentially everything that happened in a Phoenix Suns game, constantly spurring the question of, “Where would they be without him?” for supporters. Regardless of the actual numbers trying to clarify where exactly the Bulls would be without Rose, the bigger problem with that line of argument in favor of the Bulls’ young gun has to be that the Bulls have risen to the top of the Eastern Conference standings through stifling, passionate defense which, unlike Nash and the Suns’ offense, are spearheaded by the play of the Chicago point guard. This does not even imply that Rose’s defensive abilities are sub-par (he’s actually improving, and even as he fails to position himself correctly or sells out for a huge swipe at the ball, Rose consistently has shown effort on the defensive end this year), but instead disproves the supposition that because the Bulls’ roster is not filled with names that most casual roundball observers know or care about that Rose must be doing all the heavy lifting.

And down in Orlando, that is all Dwight’s doing these days: heavy lifting. After a night gushing with three-pointers and heady perimeter defense that led to a huge comeback victory for the Magic, maybe Howard’s contributions will be marginalized, as they always are. Even with 18 boards and five blocks. I don’t blame the fans as I’m easily guilty of the same. A week or so ago, I saw a Howard line of 31 points and 17 rebounds and didn’t blink; it’s just what he does. But simply because we’ve gotten used to greatness does not excuse our willful ignorance of it. Because, for once, these big guys just don’t get enough respect.

New York Knicks 91, Miami Heat 86

A great deal of the talk surrounding this game will concern Carmelo Anthony’s defense of this game’s best player, LeBron James, toward the end of this game’s fourth quarter, defense which certainly tipped a few very important possessions in the Knicks’ favor (most notably Amar’e Stoudemire’s last-minute block of James that was created by Anthony’s body control and initial tip of the shot). Still, after watching this one and having to wash the taste of it out of my mouth for a few minutes, I can only exit thinking, “The Heat still don’t get it.” Miami has, at its worst moments this season, been feeling itself a little too much, and at no time was this dynamic more apparent than the Knicks’ runs to end the last three quarters of basketball. At the beginning of every quarter, the Heat boys took control, forcing the issue on defense and creating turnovers from a team that has not even begun to properly gel into a fully-functional unit. After such gleeful flurries, Miami got the idea in its head that its nucleus has won anything together or has any reason to coast against a New York team that literally has more weapons than its coach knows what to do with them all.

As such, the Heat relented, and the pair of late-game stalwarts that Denver sent to the Mecca went to work in the final minutes of each quarter. The Knicks showed poise and heart here, no doubt, and their team defensive effort in the second half should be applauded by all of us (read: me) who naturally assumed this Knicks outfit would simply be trying to outgun its opponents night in and night out. But if there’s a story here, it’s the pomp which which Miami though it could get away in this game. No team, no matter how many of the league’s top two players it has (and Miami has both of ‘em), can glide into victories without getting dirty or acting like opponents have the right to share the court. This league has 30 solid teams, and if Miami doesn’t get its act together and remember that it has not won anything of significance, one of those other 29 will remind the Heat itself.

Houston Rockets 91, New Orleans Hornets 89

Well, this has been fun for a couple of games, eh? Although this game was not always at the breakneck pace the Rockets and Nets employed Saturday night, Houston has found some success pushing the basketball and firing away at good, clean shots, a novel idea for a team full of shooters who don’t always do so well in half-court sets. Kevin Martin, the Rockets’ already All-Star level talent, appears to have benefited most from the trade deadline deals that have him constantly sharing the floor with another scoring threat, dopeboy extraordinaire Chase Budinger, as Martin has dropped 30+ in both outings since the deals and taken kindly to an uptick in minutes. Kyle Lowry stepped up to the challenge of holing this league’s best 1 guard (a night after guarding its second-best) in Chris Paul, while making Paul work on the other end by raining in four of his eight three-point attempts (a couple of those on ridiculous, clock-beating 30-footers) to post a handsome 18 points, even on 14 shots.

The aforementioned Paul had a clunker last night, one of many in recent weeks, as the little general posted an abysmal 6 points on 12 shots, never quite getting comfortable with the looks he was getting from Lowry and Courtney Lee on defense, as the Rockets consistently double-teamed and forced other Hornets to make it happen, which actually continued to happen (new Hornet/former-folk-hero-to-yours-truly Carl Landry and Marco Belinelli combined to give the Hornets 27 points off of the bench on only 19 shots) until a brief flash of Rockets magic in the middle of the fourth quarter saw the men in red take control. The Rockets, down 12, saw Lee, Lowry and Martin hit four threes in a literal couple of minutes to bring the Rockets roaring back, and after a Brad Miller jumper to take the lead, this one had fallen in Houston’s favor, as Paul’s usual late-game heroics were absent from an anticlimactic ending. This was a big one for a Rockets team that looks to be making an outsider’s late-season push at being eliminated by the Spurs in the first round.

Los Angeles Lakers 90, Oklahoma City Thunder 87

Did you see the end of this one? Then you know what happened. This stayed close for a very long time, but after the Lakers pulled away a bit in the mid-fourth-quarter thanks to Kobe Bryant’s jumpers, it seemed like the Thunder were going to need to hit some really big shots in the last minutes to continue it. The Thunder got multiple opportunities and simply could not come through in the final minute, leaving the viewer with some seriously painful images of Kevin Durant leaving the court in disgrace (undeserved feelings, of course, but his 21 points on 20 shots was not-so helpful). Pau Gasol and Andrew Bynum’s big-boy statlines (18 and 11 plus 16 and 10, respectively) also helped the Lakers’ case, something I can’t feel too comfortable with saying will always be present until I see Kendrick Perkins suit up in turquoise and orange.

Atlanta Hawks 90, Portland Trailblazers 83

This is one of those nightly lines that makes the game seem so much close than it actually was. Portland stud LaMarcus Aldridge left the court with a balky knee toward the end of the first quarter of this one, and after all of that air was sucked out of the Rose Garden, the Hawks took whatever was left by stealing any ball that came within reach of their long arms and even longer verticals. Though the Blazers only had 14 turnovers, the Hawks scored 23 points off of those hiccups as Josh Smith and Joe Johnson made the Blazers look like tree stumps with their agility, athleticism and generic names. Jamal Crawford, though, truly shined with his Eddie House-like affinity for gunning and bizarro brilliant box score line, as the designated “****-it-I’ma-shoot”er poured in 23 points on 13 shots, even though he missed most of his field goal attempts (5-13).

The offense in this game was not so much existent, and while the Hawks at least feasted on Blazer miscues, Portland really didn’t have much going on that end even when Aldridge reentered the game. Rudy Fernandez continues to look every bit the prima donna failure he’s been branded, and Brandon Roy cannot run. Gerald Wallace’s debut thankfully evoked furious cheering, even if that was the loudest the crowd got for Wallace (who went 4-12 and grabbed five rebounds off of the bench) or anyone else on the Blazers, for that matter. There’s some combining of forces that needs to go on in Portland, and while they get that situation together, the Blazers are going to have trouble with fiery birds of prey like those in Atlanta (so sorry for that pun).