An Argument for Argument-Ending

Remember this point last summer, when you and I and everyone we know (shoutout to Miranda July) couldn’t help themselves but to piss and moan about the Melodrama and the Decision, wondering when we’d get a chance to ever get to talk about real, American-made professional basketball again? When all actual hoop talk appeared obfuscated amid a flurry of transactions, when John Salmons’s free-agent-status ruled headlines over summer baseball? It’s almost embarrassing to think of how much I wished I were hearing about LeBron throwing cold fries back at cafeteria chefs as explanation for his move to Miami rather than the tired, miserable groans from the NBA lockout. With all respect due to Larry Coon, the drudgery of collective bargaining agreement logistics has finally crushed my will and limited the vast majority of my basketball intake to that of my own experiences at the playground. Of course, as I’m sure it has for most of us roundball fiends, this tragedy has pushed me to the hobbies I had so obliviously neglected through last season, and by indulging in them, I, as I’m sure the rest of you have, realized exactly how badly I need there to be an NBA season.

While I may be ashamed to admit such things amongst respectable company, I spent the better part of the last decade trolling around on hip-hop websites, picking e-fights with anyone interested in debating the merits of Dipset or Outkast; given the dog days of 100-degree-weather and style-nullifying sweat, staying inside and feigning expertise seemed as fit a way to spend this summer as any. When last week brought the release of hip-hop’s own summer blockbuster, a supergroup consisting of Kanye West and Jay-Z’s debut album, Watch the Throne, I instantly reverted to belligerent mode, assaulting all with whom I disagreed, ignoring the insignificance of the entire matter and generally making an ass of myself. This, however, is not my regret. Rather, I was almost immediately reminded of the futility of Internet debates about art. The unquestionable, solid-gold proof of a major argument by one party could just as easily appear to serve the purpose of the former’s opponent, if skewed the right way. That is the beauty of a game that meticulously records its statistics: all will be remembered.

Obviously, sports arguments can just as easily, if not more so, be derailed by moments of ignorance, emotionally-tinged memories that tell far different stories than either the record books or the scorecards (“Dude, I promise that Reggie Miller would have been the best player of  the 90’s if it weren’t for Mike.”). In fact, asking for a return to the inanity of NBA ball on sports radio (*shudder*) and “LeBron sucks” seems masochistic, if not just dumb; however, one more argument about why samples should be more obscure or the validity of an independent music publication’s “cred” could melt all that remained of your trusty scribe away. A salute to a world in which silences can be created by the rattling off of PERs, bets can be won because a guy happened to remember exactly how many more rebounds Joakim Noah averaged last year than the one prior (one more), contests won because Jimmy Jackson actually played for 12 teams. A salute to certainty in a world where there is rarely any. And a beggar’s plea for some damn basketball.

httpv://youtu.be/_hHDxlm66dE

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Fastalkerus
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Fastalkerus

I bet if I met you in the “real world” as opposed to the “virtual world”, I would say “you have very good syntax.” Then I would say “Nah homey, the best player in the nineties was not reggie.”

Fastalkerus
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Fastalkerus

I bet if I met you in the “real world” as opposed to the “virtual world”, I would say “you have very good syntax.” Then I would say “Nah homey, the best player in the nineties was not reggie.”

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