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.

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

Jacob Mustafa: Holy Christums, Eric, this is why these guys waited so long to start the season: the NBA has no clue what the hell is going on (and nor do I). Tyson Chandler, David West and Lamar Odom, a guy who wasn’t even a free agent going into this three-week orgy of knee-jerk reactions we’re calling an offseason, have all essentially switched teams more than once in the past three days. Anyone over the height of 6’9″ has been signed to an offer sheet worth more than $10 million; Olden Polynice just bought a new Hummer, and they don’t even make those anymore. And Chris Paul hates David Stern almost as much as Dell Demps and Daryl Morey do. Speaking of our fair leader, I’ve appreciated his Frank White-esque mentality with regard to making trades, splashing the Rockets’ name on basically anything resembling a big deal. Can’t knock a man for trying to save his job, if not quite a team.

Eric Todd: Can’t knock Morey, but we sure can knock the NBA (ahem, David Stern/Dan Gilbert) for pressing its/their totalitarian boot(s) to the throats of three of its franchises for the sake of some vague agenda that reads more like the mob fixing boxing matches than a benevolent shepherd looking after a stray ewe. The problem with the party line is that the “basketball reasons” the league cited for nixing the deal imply that New Orleans was getting screwed, that the team could and should, for the best interest of the franchise and its fans, find a better deal, which, in my opinion, it probably can’t and even more probably won’t. Even disregarding the fallout for the Rockets and Lakers, the varied reports of the league’s/Stern’s motivation for vetoing the trade and the carelessly ambiguous language of its official press release set a frightening precedent and generally left a bad taste in my mouth as a fan, not only of the Rockets, but also of the entire NBA.

JM: It definitely felt like Stern shoved something unseemly down our throats. I’m not entirely sure that were Stern trying to procure the best deal for Paul, the one made Thursday wasn’t the best offer; however, the talent sent to the Hornets seemed the least of Stern’s, or Gilbert’s or Cuban’s, concerns. Those men wanted to keep a top-five talent out of Los Angeles, which they did, unless playing for the Clippers counts as playing for Los Angeles (which it doesn’t). Stephon Curry, Eric Gordon and Rajon Rondo all seem like more attractive centerpieces of a deal than the spare parts the Rockets and Lakers sent Demps’ way before Generalissimo Stern called the whole thing off; too bad that never mattered. The only thing I’m left wondering is exactly what does matter to the Commish (no offense to Michael Chiklis, who at this point has a far better reputation than Stern). Is it good PR? A safe journey to the top for some Western symbol of light and goodness to combat the Satan incarnate that resides in Miami, unobstructed by a new powerhouse in purple and gold? Some salvation for his filth-encrusted, malodorous bathroom mat of a reputation that just gets defiled more by the day?

ET: And the Rockets? The team we love/are here to write about, where does all this leave our hopes? Reports are that Houston put an offer sheet out on Marc Gasol yesterday. Wouldn’t it have been a nice incentive to have already had his brother in tow? But alas, what we’re left with are a pair of ego-bruised borderline all-stars (who’ve never actually been) and a pitch to a player that Memphis will more than likely match. So the team is exactly where it started, only more dysfunctional, like a couple who separate because of infidelity only to get back together for the sake of their children. What if Morey doesn’t pull off any trades or free agent signings at all? Won’t Houston just end up exactly where its been for the past two years, at the top of the trash heap, too good for a decent draft pick but not good enough to actually compete? What about trading Martin to Utah for Paul Milsap or Scola to Toronto for draft picks? (Also, how sad/angry are you that we lost Chuck Hayes? Personally, I blame Stern for that, too.)

JM: Eventually, we can all get back at Stern for all of the messy divorces and broken homes he’s caused in the last week, but you’re more than right when you note the absolute lack of regard with which the league office and Stern treated Houston. The Rockets’ meddling, endless planning proved that chess is far less predictable than the irrationalities of a madman in charge of an entertainment enterprise fell apart at their very seams, a wadded ball of beautiful stitching that just couldn’t withstand the endless undulations of Hurricane Stern. So we’re left minus a mini-hero in Chuck Hayes, minus a couple of Gasols (most likely), minus a big, seemingly interested Brazilian warrior/efficient post-scorer/cancer survivor, minus an identity or a sense of cohesion or anything resembling a well constructed team. All thanks to some unintelligible reasoning by an old, power-mad man and a lot of bad breaks, of which not the greatest understanding of game theory (and I most certainly do not possess that) could have prepared any of us. Maybe it’s all for the best (what other platitudes do Rockets followers have to placate themselves with at this point?), as this might jumpstart a true rebuilding process, one that’ll send off our tradeable assets (as you mentioned, Scola and Martin) in order to lead to draft picks and cap space and sugarplums and non-drug-induced-euphoria. The Rockets were so keen on taking wild chances just a few days ago; we can only hope Morey has the foresight, or fortitude, to take this one.

Photo courtesy of Kyle Lowry's Twitter

Ranking this year’s thin-but-fascinating class of free agents soon to be swallowed whole by the upcoming whirlpool of machinations and scheming that is 2011 NBA free agency, Tom Ziller came upon Houston’s own beloved, incomparable, ineffable Chuck Hayes and had this to say:

I’m not asking you to understand Chuck Hayes, because I don’t. I’m asking you to accept him. He’s among the best defenders in the league at both frontcourt positions — yes, he mostly played center at 6’6 last season — and he’s essentially replacement level on offense, ignoring the offensive glass, where he’s brilliant. His triple-double last season remains a feat of man no one can explain. God bless Chuck Hayes. Feed him a mini mid-level, someone. Just do it.

While I’m loath to neglect mentioning Hayes’ ability to defend basically any position (I’ve seen him switch off to guard players from LeBron James to Chris Paul to Rajon Rondo and handle himself remarkably well), we must all thank Ziller for spreading the good news about the walking tree stump of a human that is the Chuck Wagon, a man so impressive in his heart that he’s even led me to kind of like that idiotic nickname. While the idea of the Rockets losing Hayes this year literally breaks my heart (seriously, crumbling apart like so many crackers in the bottom of the package), if anyone deserves to finally be fairly paid for the unending workload given to him, that man is Chuck.

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.

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.

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.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLJeKCA8Iq4

I play a regular game, twice a week at noon, with some men who are mostly much older (and more financially stable, thus the ability for recreation at noon) than I. Most have played ball at varying levels of competition, from rec leagues to high school to the occasional college guy (one time, Bobby Sura showed up, but that’s not this story). At the moment, there’s a clear paragon among us, a 40-something with a dead-eye jumpshot from anywhere and covered in muscles in places I wish I were less soft. And that guy, well, he’s my size; therefore, when matching up, he and I often find ourselves guarding one another, though describing what he does to me as “guarding” seems to me a liberal application of the word. On the other end, though, I find myself at a loss. Too far back, and he steps up and guns a 30-footer in my face. Too close, and he’s by me, pushing off for any space he didn’t create with his first step. To worsen a maddening confluence of events, the pride within me allowed me to fall into his mind games and shake off help defenders, lying in wait for his impending, bullish charges toward the bucket, either because I knew someone else would inevitably burn us or just so I could make him pay for all of his taunts that my teammates “better give the boy some help”. I found myself almost ready to fight with him the other day, frustrated by the fact that everything I did still routinely ended with me on my back, as he put up another jumper (that usually went in).

Ever the insane person, I finally broke down and went home to study some videos of Shane Battier because that’s what a cartoon character such as myself would do. Immediately, I was reminded of the brilliance required to contain the world’s greatest scorers, with jabsteps that would break my 40-year-old’s knees and fadeaways that don’t get flustered by 7-footers, much less my stubby 6 feet. At first, the skill appears obvious, as the steals and blocks mesmerize and beg the viewer to recall Battier’s greatest hits when guys in the red and yellow could win 22 in a row, even if its ultimate culmination was just some nameless Sunday afternoon game against a badly injured Lakers team. But that first viewing wasn’t why I was watching these; I needed more, something I could use, some semblance of an imitable philosophy to stop what feels like an unstoppable force from simply imposing its will.

That’s when I remembered that Shane Battier’s brilliance never really lied (or lies, lest I write an obituary for a man or his career simply because he played in a different city for half of this past season) in Shane Battier; instead, most of his greatness comes from his ability to blend with, and use for his benefit (and for that of the rest of his brothers in red), his teammates, an innate understanding of where those around him should and would be. Yes, the imposing wall of man that was Yao Ming provided a pretty hefty target to shade unsuspecting (or should I say wholly suspecting) perimeter players toward, but only through brilliant footwork, kindergarten-teacher-like patience and a healthy trust in every single one of his teammates can Battier do the unthinkable, like limit the Kobes and Durants and D-Wades of the world. He goes way under screens, confident his partners in crime will be there waiting, denying what can’t be permitted. Despite the myriad ball fakes and misdirections of the eye thrown his way, Battier stays true and always contests without leaving his feet, at least until he’s sure, in that split-second available, that the demi-god he’s likely got to shadow around that particular night has committed first. In his brilliance, so much goodness can be gleaned, even verging on virtue.

In Shane Battier’s defense, we learn trust, commitment, solidarity, oneness. That D is like a Buddhist prayer, quietly acknowledging how little we can control but still trying to make the most of what we can. Trading Shane Battier appeared a necessary evil for the Rockets at the mid-point this year, and it was a deal I whole-heartedly supported, even if that heart was being broken by doing so. Still, just watching those videos reminded me why I so desperately want the Rockets to throw their first bit of post-lockout free agent cash his way. Not just because of his defense, or presence on the team; I’ve always secretly kind of hoped he’d go on to take a larger role with the team, to go all Obi-Wan and become more powerful than any of us could ever imagine. Maybe he’d be a coach, maybe a GM (I’m sure Daryl Morey would approve so long as it didn’t put him out of work personally. Morey and Battier’s beliefs in a cohesive unit’s success seem somewhat akin, especially given that Battier and Morey both seem to be more reactive than grounded in any one, stifling philosophy), although Battier’s breadth of knowledge and general well roundedness never boded well for his likelihood of being so deeply involved with the game after his retirement.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=tihuetXMG8U

Maybe, just maybe though, he could teach us all his secrets, though. Except for, while digging through videos trying to scrounge up some more material to use for my own selfish (and ridiculous) purposes, I heard from Shane’s own mouth that there is no secret to defense, just will and effort. Such platitudes generally run off the backs of sports fans so inured to the endless recitations of the athlete’s selfless coda, but out of Battier’s mouth, these things resonate. Just try harder, be smarter, care more, and you’ll be better.

After playing our normal six or seven games the other day (my playing mates’ older bodies rarely hold up to much more, and my own doughy corpse gladly accepts the layoff), one of my teammates came up to me and said of my failed attempt to stop my 40-something tormentor, “You know, you were reaching way too often. He wasn’t fouling you; he was being smarter than you and waiting for you to screw up before attacking your body when you left it vulnerable.” I knew this, even if I didn’t want to admit it. The next time I step pout there, though, Battier’s words, as empty as they would have been from almost anyone else, will ring in my head. There are no secrets, just will and effort. Stay true.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMSEHzzc0TE

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?

While the Rockets have seen their fair share of Hall-of-Famers and HOF-types stomp through town, no star left quite the indelible mark of Olajuwon. Calvin Murphy was a fine talent, but never the kind of franchise player that could elevate an entire team to greatness. Moses Malone probably has a few too many stamps on his frequent-flyer card to count Houston as his home solely because he once dragged them on his hulking shoulders to a laugher of a Finals appearance in 1981. Charles Barkley probably doesn’t even take calls from Les Alexander anymore. And Clyde Drexler, as many barbeque spots as he may open in the Greater Houston Metropolitan Area or embarrassing stints as the coach of the University of Houston, this city can’t rightfully claim his legacy, as it belongs in the Pacific Northwest.

No, Hakeem Olajuwon stands alone in Rockets history (and, hell, Houston sports history) as the solemn, venerable titan of the franchise, so making sure that his name remains in the tossing about of the Abdul-Jabbars and O’Neals is of preeminent concern to those associated with the red & yellow. Sad then that instead of being bandied about with those GOAT-types, the genuinely strange arc of Olajuwon’s career (Finals appearance, long stretch as insolent superstar keeping ragtag crew together, UNMITIGATED GLORY, fade to black) and the even more peculiar skillset of his have left that legacy completely up for debate, a subject actually quite made for those aimless shout matches on AM radio.

Describing Olajuwon’s game, as with most greats of his ilk, devolves into a string of superlatives. His versatility on the offensive end of the floor may never be seen again (a fact evidenced by the fact that he is one of four NBA players to ever post a quadruple-double, and even had another one that was later rescinded by NBA officials who disputed one of the assists). He was at once the greatest post operator of his time, while still possessing one of the most impressive inside-out games in league history, much less in 6’10″ men history. Unlike other centers, he could, and often did, begin his attack from well outside the paint, facing up unprepared seven-footers, never quite ready for the move (or nine) he was ready to reveal. Perhaps most fearsome of his offensive game was the mere fact that when the defense did everything right, denying him and his infinite touch the chance to get to the rim or an outright open shot, he would seemingly fade into a miserable turnaround jumper that just so happened to be his pet move, the Dream Shake. On defense? He propped up decades of mediocre Rockets perimeter defenders (Kenny Smith, Sam Cassell, an antique Drexler) with his nose for the ball, eventually rising up to be the statistical leader in blocked shots in NBA history. Distinguishing himself at almost all aspects of the forgotten end of the court, Olajuwon further distinguished himself by being the only player above the height of 6’8″ to find himself on the top 10 leaderboard in steals.

Paragraphs like the former essentially write themselves when talking about all-time greats, but at some point, the fawning ends, and the ridiculous urge to know just how good develops, which of course means, “How good was he when compared to everyone else?” Well, given the lacking credentials, even putting his name up there with Russell, Wilt and Alcindor seems heresy, but that next tier of greatness seems about right. Still, I’m not so much as interested in actually trying to really put this into list form, but simply to reveal the wistful bias that time elapsed and nostalgia can produce. One of the prime reasons fans and advocates of Dream stand by the claim that he was, if not the greatest pivot of all-time, at least the greatest of his time is that he went toe-to-toe with the vast majority of his contemporaries in the playoffs and, particularly during the Rockets’ two title runs, handed them all their heads. Ewing, Robinson, O’Neal- all were slayed by the Nigerian man with the soft touch. Because of this, Olajuwon’s superiority to those of his time, particularly Robinson and Ewing, is just assumed thanks to his victory of the head-to-head battle; however, when measured fairly, Robinson’s numbers in specific serve as a stark counterpoint to that particular line of logic. When comparing career-long offensive output, the argument ceases to exist: Robinson was the superior regular season baller, posting highs in PER that Dream never sniffs (30.7, 31, 29.4 and 29.1, whereas Hakeem tops off with 27.3 in 92-93. For those without context, Robinson’s numbers are positively Jordan-like, and the only player to top him in league-wide PER in any of those years was, you guessed, Mike himself) along with superior true shooting and effective field goal percentages throughout the careers of both. Some of that could be attributed to Olajuwon’s career-wide usage rate advantage over Robinson, which would of course lead to greater inefficiency, but the diffferential in usage rates over their careers is but 0.9 percentage points. With only that slight difference in use of possessions, Robinson still managed to post ridiculous offensive ratings (as did Dream, just slightly less ridiculous); the real kicker, though, is the difference in the numbers created by The Wages of Wins author Dave Berri, whose Offensive Win Shares and Overall Win Shares numbers paint a portrait of Olajuwon as a perennial All-Star… and Robinson as a god. Robinson lead the league in Win Shares per 48 minutes played in five seasons in his career, though only in one season that Jordan played, while Olajuwon never comes near their dominance according to Berri’s stats.

While some would take this moment to point out the defensive contributions that Olajuwon made that Robinson simply couldn’t have, the numbers also betray Dream in this regard. Their overall block and steal rates are disarmingly similar, and while Olajuwon eclipses Robinson in Defensive Win Shares by a great deal over their respective careers, individual defensive rating favors Robinson. Most advanced statistics still haven’t fully captured the impact that players like Olajuwon and Robinson have on a team-wide defense, acting as the last line of help for a Mario Elie that got broken off the dribble or an unsure-footed Vinny Del Negro, so comparing team defensive efficiency can generate a somewhat clearer image of the kinds of defensive mavens both were. Even those statistics contradict Dream’s legacy, as his teams ranked among the league’s five-best defenses eight out of his first ten years in the league, but Robinson led his Spurs to league’s best defense four times in his first ten years in the league, as well as one of the league’s five-best defenses for seven years out of that decade (in all fairness, the Spurs led the league in defense featured teams led by defensive geniuses Larry Brown and Gregg Popovich in those four years of league-leading defense, as well as another young defensive-minded big man by the name of Tim Duncan, who also may have hop-skipped both Dream and Robinson in this all-timers debate, helping Robinson for those last couple of years to hold down the paint).

In fact, stats never tend to favor Hakeem in this debate, except for one glaring exception: playoff numbers, particularly those of Olajuwon and Robinson’s much ballyhooed matchup against one another in the 1995 Wesertn Conference Finals. In that series, Olajuwon elevated himself to the levels of sublimity that have created this vaunted image in recent years, outscoring Robinson 35 points a game to 23 and even outrebounding the year’s MVP, while shooting a 56% clip throughout the whole thing. Overall playoff numbers tend to favor Dream as well, as he has higher overall PER, offensive rating and even Win Share stats. The playoffs crafted the hazy, almost mythical representation that most ardent Hakeem followers hold today, and it would only make sense that it would be there, when the games mattered most, where Olajuwon would earn his statistical victories over Robinson and the rest of his contemporaries.

By writing this, I had no intentions of iconoclasm, simply a little air-letting in the sails of Olajuwon that can get so puffed up after 15 years of post-title trauma for Rockets fans. Because of this, so often do we as fans find ourselves creating a tall tale out of what, in and of itself, was already beautiful and unthinkable. When a gorgeous myth starts to steal part of the mind-numbing greatness of reality, we have to look back and remember what made us care in the first place.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8CdhxScrV0

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

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.

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.

Last season’s Bucks offense revealed a couple of things: Bogut’s hand functions as if repaired mostly with duct tape and hope, and Milwaukee needs scoring oh so badly. Though taking the ball out of Jennings’ hands might stunt his growth, Jackson’s particular brand of point-forward-iness should open up an offense that needs ball movement and shooting as badly as any.

Flash forward to the present day, where I am highly aware of exactly how hard it is to do the things NBA players do with disarming ease after practicing for years. While everyone goes through slumps, and though a relative hierarchy among the haves and have-nots still exists among the league’s players, basically every NBA player has a skill set that brings something to his team that is of consequence (see: Thabeet, Hasheem- height). That’s why the beginning of the 2010-11 season brought a bigger surprise for Rockets followers than most NBA viewers get to see, in the worst kind of way: Chase Budinger did not just look bad; he looked like he did not belong on an NBA team.

The perenially fresh-faced Budinger had survived a tumultuous first season with more than a sliver of hope for improvement, showcasing an all-around game that looked brilliantly suited to Rick Adelman’s offense. His jumpshot looked pure enough to strike fear in any defender’s heart, enough so that he could use his seemingly boundless athleticism to find his way to the rim to make the easy play. While his initial 44% from the field might not have screamed sharpshooter, considering his constantly shifting role in an offense fraught with injuries and in-season roster tinkering, Budinger had actually showed more aplomb than most would have expected from the formerly lottery-bound Arizona star. Then that all came crashing down with the beginning of last season, as his usually steady stoke dissipated before viewers’ eyes, resulting in a 37 FG% over the first couple of months. Over that same time period (October- December 2010), Bud threw up an abysmal 28% from the arc, which, coupled with his poor defensive instincts (in a couple of early-season match-ups with Denver, the then-Nugget Carmelo Anthony repeatedly called for the ball when covered by Budinger, consistently getting wherever he wanted. Similar occurrences took place when Bud was matched up against Kevin Durant and LeBron James. This is not to imply that anyone can truly shut these guys down, but it can’t be good that guys’ mouths water when matched up against the floppy-haired volleyballer), made him an all-around liability to the Rockets while on the court.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbFMAw5hP1U

Now, it’s important to note that this was the case with a good deal of the Houston Rockets early in the 2010-11 season, as Kyle Lowry, Courtney Lee, Shane Battier and Jordan Hill all also had their own early-season tribulations; the difference was not necessarily in production, though Budinger’s was especially low. Instead, Bud’s seeming complete lack of confidence in just about anything resembling a basketball skill deterred any viewer from feeling reciprocal faith that the kid would ever emerge from the mire in which he had found himself. Therein lies the biggest issue for Budinger, as it is for so many skilled swingmen in this league: does the kid have the fortitude to last these slumps or will this be the narrative from here onward?

Yeah, he got better by the end of the season, along with the rest of the team. That may be what determines the future for Bud, whether his team can survive long enough without him to gain his services again once things get a bit rosier. Can the Rockets, or any NBA team, wait around in the lean times for the fairweather talent that is Chase Budinger? I don’t know, but I’m no longer deluded enough to respond to the question of why he took so long to get going last year with, “He sucks.”

While the Houston Rockets have avoided dealing with quite too much of that mind-numbing defeat stuff (eh… there’s still been plenty of it), the question of who the team’s best player is has been of constant interest since Yao Ming fell down and never got back up in Game 3 of that Conference Finals those 125,000 some odd years ago. Whether it be the two since-traded heroes of those playoffs in Carl Landry and Aaron Brooks, the team’s most reliable (and least athletic and second-poorest defender of a) veteran in Luis Scola, or the high-scoring (and worst defensive player on the team) Kevin Martin, all who have taken that mantle have generally found their heads ill fits for the crown, reasonable considering Yao wore it last. Despite this and after a tragedy of a beginning to the 10-11 season, who should come to the forefront of the pack but the perennially underrated bench point guard, Kyle Lowry, coming intact with a shiny new jumpshot (only new by virtue of actually going in) and downtick in turnovers (outside of the month of March, in which Lowry’s usage rate skyrocketed with matching increases in shot attempts and FTA, he exhibited a beautiful touch for keeping the ball last season, possessing a 10.0 Turnover Ratio last year,  the sixth-best among starting point guards). Kyle Lowry, that bulldog”, that kid who’s “all heart”, the one who played good defense. That kid will be the Rockets’ best chance at having an elite player in 2011, and that thought is a terrifying one.

Lowry always seemed to be the team’s best-kept secret, a two-way guy in the truest sense, and routinely brought an absolutely crucial amount of energy when he backed up the shot-happy combo guard in a tiny package that was Brooks; it only seemed natural he’d one day lead a team, but the jaw-dropping change that took place last March in the baby-faced floor general shook up the Rockets’ hierarchy in the best of ways, presenting the no-problem of a new best talent, emerging from the cocoon of youth and the bench to exercise his will after recovering from an early bout of back spasms in 10-11 and having the security of his job as the starter as Brooks was shipped out to the desert. Yes, those (select) months last season truly introduced the world to NBA baller Kyle Lowry, the puppy with big paws.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ed4GJX8nf_g

Um, but what exactly do we know about Kyle Lowry? While advanced statistics have often been friendly to low-usage guys like Lowry who hold on to the ball and don’t take too many bad shots, the trend tends to be that said efficiencies drop with added minutes, and while that may be true in some respects for Lowry, he actually had a remarkably productive finish to last year. This should bode very well for the starting point’s future, but the sample size is so tiny that very little can be gleaned from a year of 37% from the three-point-line and seven full Win Shares (by comparison, Derrick Rose had 13.1 last year, Deron Williams had 7.3 and Jameer Nelson had 6.6), leaving a giant question mark in the middle of the Rockets’ lineup. The Rockets have to be happy at the point guard position, but does the team have the kind of advanced weaponry with which it seems all NBA teams are coming to the point guard arms race?

Kyle Lowry’s a quiet type on the court, not exactly the wizened veteran whose very face implies the kind of maturity a team’s best player is expected to bring daily nor the boisterous sort who brings the band of misfits together with his gregariousness and general basketball talents. No, if Kyle Lowry becomes the Houston Rockets’ best player in 2012, he will likely have to bring the game he showed last year with him. The fate of the Houston Rockets’ progress in this next season likely depends on just that.

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.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=_hHDxlm66dE

General managers of professional basketball teams are a stubborn sort, the kind of men who like to go down with the ship and save the lifeboats for all of the lucky guys on short contracts (or, in Otis Smith’s case, take an entire city down with him). Too often teams stand by a faulty decision, sometimes for lack of better options but occasionally out of sheer doggedness in proving just how right the original decision was. Daryl Morey lacks the misguided machismo usually guiding such lines of thought, and because of this, Morey’s been able to unload some of the worse contracts in his tenure just a year after signing said deals, at once owning up to his mistake while almost always bringing in superior talent at lower costs. Maybe Morey still hasn’t caught the whale of a star this team’s fanbase (myself loudly included) has been crowing for ever since the realization that Yao Ming’s feet and ankles were made of yogurt pretzels and Silly Bandz, but all of the low-risk gambles and sub-radar maneuvering that evoked these fans’ love still make the Rockets the kings of the low-stakes transaction in the NBA, something even I can appreciate.

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.

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

For all of you (and me), the cats over at Oakley & Allen put together a nice reminder of the feelings that go along with seeing a dream narrative realized with this 1995 NBA Finals flashback to Game 2 between the Houston Rockets and the Orlando Magic, a time when Sam Cassell did not know how to talk to national reporters, Penny Hardaway still flew and Typical Cats and Don Cannon scored it all.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=chJnmEpVbvo

For those who have no idea what I’m talking about when I use the words “indie cred” or “hipster appeal”, allow me to clarify my nonsense. Similar to an earlier discussion this year about “buzz teams” in the first round of the playoffs (when all was right because everything was wrong, and Chris Paul could be easily mistaken for God), the idea of an “indie” team runs along the same vague, arbitrary path, although while “buzz teams” generally need some respectable level of success (a winning record, a trip to the playoffs in the East), a team that appeals to the scenesters need only have some fascinating angle, such as a star with strange tattoos that thinks he’s Jewish or a collection of screw-ups assembled by a mad man. Oh yes, almost any team can have its own crowd of Tweeples and bizarre devotees… except the Houston Rockets.

For some reason, Houston, with its band of brothers that has continually put together contextually impressive seasons and never seems to give up, seems just a little too earnest and nondescript to gain the cynical gazes of those in the oversized spectacles. Where the blue-collar ethos that pervades the Rocket locker room may have endless appeal to the Sunday-paper-columnist crew, there is no room for cool in Houston. Because of this, I’m determined to make the Rockets a hipster favorite, a regular ’06 Golden State Warriors, if you will. So, without further ado, some tips to make all things Rockets cool, or at least make the team easier to fit into those forever-topical-”Which character on The Wire is your favorite player?”-blog-posts:

• Make the players more distinctive. Besides the atrocious, grease-laden hair of Luis Scola, few Rockets possess the kind of accoutrement that generally gets the hipsters hemming and hawing; to fix this, the Rockets need only tap into their creative sides. Perhaps Jordan Hill could have one of his eyes surgically removed so as to wear an eye-patch nightly; this would certainly add character to his face, while not really changing his natural ability to find the ball. Chase Budinger’s forays into the white-guy afro have been half-hearted at best, so some sort of headband/fro combo could really raise his Vice Magazine-quotient considerably. Kevin Martin, with his innocuous personality and ho-hum name, has been one of this league’s hidden All-Stars, so hidden that he hasn’t ever actually been an All-Star (even if the Internet said he was one this year); one likely way to change that perception (or non-perception as no one is perceiving Martin) would be a nickname switch. Being called K-Mart in 2011 is akin to eating at an A&W restaurant this decade; it’s just passé and dorky enough to elicit laughter without being quite old enough to enter “so old, it’s cool” territory. Ideal name changes would be “Floppy Joe” or “Light-Skinned Killa”.

• Make all things retro. Do you know how to your make your jeans cooler? Get some older ones. Your Audi’s nice, but a bit on the gauche side. Get an El Camino. All things are made cooler through oldness, obviously, so the Rockets need to make some efforts in that direction. One clear room for improvement is the team’s jerseys; they look as if they were designed after the 1970′s, a classic hipster no-no. Instead, Houston should probably skip the half-stepping of the team’s current alternate faux-retro and go all in by mandating goggles, short shorts and handlebar mustaches. To really kick it up a notch, heavily distressed jean cutoffs may be the next logical progression.

• Marry a Kardashian. There are more of those, right? One for each unmarried Rocket. I mean, people like Kris Humphries now; that’s got to be worth something. Oh wait, I’m sorry; no one likes Kris Humphries.

• Be indifferent. There is nothing even close to as hipster as not giving a flying hoot about anything. The Rockets have already shown a natural predilection for this on the defensive end of the ball, but it’s time to go further. Hiring Kevin McHale seems a natural step towards this, but did the Rockets ever consider just not hiring anyone for the head coaching job? It would be cheap (super hipster), plus the sharp decline in indie cred for President Obama after his election proves that the apathetic hip masses can’t get down with any older authority figure in suits telling them what to do, even a comparatively younger black guy who claims to like hip-hop. Nothing is cooler than a complete and utter lack of authority; just ask Don Nelson.

• Add players who can do everything, even if they don’t do it any of it well. Most teams worth their salt in indie cred (the English language hates this article) are well versed in the ways of the potential-laden, do-it-all-but-none-of-it-at-a-meaningful-time-types who constantly frustrate the hell out of NBA front offices with their ostensible myriad abilities that appear to all malfunction at once at the most inconvenient times. Take Anthony Randolph. Even without playing for almost the entire first half of the 2010-11 NBA season, the gangly 6’11″ center found himself on not one or two, but three indie teams within the span of a year. He was abused by the aforementioned Nelson in Golden State (where his ability to play aggressive interior defense, handle the ball and shoot jumpers were all supposed to coalesce perfectly), shipped to the Knicks (where all of his gifts were supposed to work perfectly) and promptly given a seat on the bench, and finally hurled thoughtlessly over at that island of misfit toys in Minnesota (where his all-around gifts kind of worked out perfectly. Huh); without doing anything in two of those spots, his very presence on those rosters made those delusional, idealistic teams seem a hell of a lot cooler, if simultaneously dumber.

• BRAD MILLER. When you’ve got it, flaunt it. And when you have a big, country guy who loves to wear headbands, shoot ill-advised threes, pass like a point guard, get cornrows, hunt things with his teammates while on the road, seem to cry after almost every one of his hilarious blunders, make hilarious blunders all of the time, and look terribly uncomfortable doing all of it, it’s time to strut that thing. Let’s face it. Trey Kirby loves him. The Internet loves him. Hipsters love him. More Miller time means more headbanded, Supreme-rocking bloggers fawning all over the Rockets.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=XELvr_rUiNQ

Maybe hipsterdom should be avoided at all costs, but if the Houston Rockets are going to continue to find themselves in a holding pattern, it would only make sense to look cool doing it. Making sense, though? Totally not hipster.

With a strong, late push in the search process, Kevin McHale has emerged as the frontrunner for the Houston Rockets coaching vacancy, multiple league sources told Yahoo! Sports on Saturday.

No final decision has officially been reached, nor are contract negotiations underway, but McHale has clearly separated himself from Dallas Mavericks assistant Dwane Casey and Boston Celtics assistant Lawrence Frank, sources said. McHale made a strong final impression in conversations with Houston officials on Thursday in Chicago, and could receive a formal offer in the next week.

Hmmm, this sounds really familiar. A couple of accomplished, deeply respected assistants look overmatched in comparison to a charismatic former player with his own fair share of past success (though not as a coach). Man, it’s like Dwane Casey is the new… Dwane Casey. The same thing has happened to Casey twice as the charming, hilariously inept Vinny Del Negro has scooped up multiple jobs for which the two competed, as VDN went on to stumble as the Bulls coach only to recover with the Clippers last year. Larry Drew also won out over Casey this last summer for the Hawks job, but at least Drew was previously an assistant and did a pretty solid job of getting the most out of that team (even rolling at full steam, Atlanta and its potential likely max out at “feisty second-round exit”). In each of those scenarios, I always wondered what the hell could be going on in these interviews that invariably seemed to be putting Casey on the backburner. Here, I find myself wondering the same thing.

Kevin McHale has engendered a lot of good will from around the NBA in recent months thanks to his very enthusiastic, somewhat nuanced work as a commentator for both NBA TV and TNT, this, of course, in addition to the act that everyone tends to like guys with Hall-of-Fame careers and a handful of rings. McHale’s physically impressive 6’10″ build might invoke the solemn calmness of Phil Jackson, who could stand eye-to-eye with almost any of his players until his back would not allow him to any longer. The former Boston Celtics big man has consistently shown his ability to speak amiably and candidly about his career and his current involvement in the NBA, clearing away most worries that he could turn in to the Magic/Bird types who assumed their very presences would be able to sort out all of the details of being an actual NBA head coach. That was never a problem because McHale’s actually been an NBA head coach before this recent flirtation with Houston. What was a problem is that McHale’s actually been an NBA head coach before this recent flirtation with Houston, and in those stints, the work he’s done could be politely described as “spotty”.

Anthony Carter said he couldn’t draw up plays and looked like a child doing so. Minnesota Timberwolves owner Glen Taylor seemed to view McHale’s second run as a head coach as punishment for the sins of McHale the general manager, essentially saying, “Clean up this mess you made.” Judging his record solely on wins seems unfair, but if you’re one of those people that buys into such an unconventional rubric, his 39-52 record (mostly padded by an insignificant 19-12 run at the end of a season in which the Wolves, with Kevin Garnett, missed the playoffs) doesn’t exactly scream “untapped potential”. And as for that mess he made as GM for the Wolves, remember that while he may have drafted Kevin Garnett (and gracefully dealt him out in one of the best “superstar for some guys” trades ever), he also traded Ray Allen for Stephon Mabury, signed Joe Smith to such an illegal contract that the Wolves were stripped of first-round draft picks for half a decade, tapped Terrell Brandon, Wally Szczerbiak and Latrell Sprewell to be Garnett’s number two option at different times and basically created the black hole of hope that forced Garnett to leave in the first place. While he may not be applying to be the next general manager of the Rockets, having his input on personnel decisions for years to come does not particularly appeal to me.

Perhaps I underestimate presence, leadership qualities and several other intangibles that I can’t gauge while drinking Gatorade and reading silly articles about basketball players from behind a computer screen. Or maybe Kevin McHale is another former NBA player with a big smile and a great voice about to charm his way into another job that a couple of well-regarded, innovative assistants would have been better suited to do.

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.

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 ****.

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/threecoaches/6727/ http://www.red94.net/threecoaches/6727/#comments Mon, 09 May 2011 15:35:47 +0000 jacob mustafa http://www.red94.net/?p=6727 After weeks of whittling down an untenable list of choices, Daryl Morey brings us his three possible choices for the next sideline stalker of the Houston Rockets. Via Kurt Helin of ProBasketballTalk:

After interviewing a candidate pool roughly the size of the population of India, the Houston Chronicle reports they (sic) Rockets have narrowed the search to three finalists:

Lawrence Frank, Dwane Casey and Kevin McHale.

All three of them are former NBA head coaches. Frank is the current lead assistant for the Boston Celtics, Casey is still working as an assistant in Dallas right now. McHale is working as an analysit for NBA TV.

While this may put a damper on all of those Rockets fans waiting for a Stan Van Gundy dismissal from Orlando so that he could follow in his brother’s footsteps in Houston, it can only help this organization inch closer to a measure of stability that has eluded a Rockets team left discombobulated by injuries and incessant trade talk. Frank’s best known as the guy who began his coaching career with a record 13 consecutive wins for his then New Jersey Nets. After following that with five promising if disappointing seasons (he took those Nets to the playoffs four times, three of those runs going into the conference semis), Frank has gone on to replace Tom Thibodeau as the Boston Celtics’ resident defensive guru, helping guide the league’s second-best defense this season. Frank is an unarguably safe bet that could bring a greater deal of defensive intensity and overall stricture to a team that desperately needs both (the last half of this year’s run could be described as nothing short of fantastic, but little attention or consequence was assigned to adherence to scheme for the Rockets’ defense, even if the ardor for that end of the floor was turned up).

My personal favorite, Dwane Casey, will likely be the hardest sell to a Rockets fanbase still not entirely sure why Rick Adelman won’t be the team’s coach next season. Casey’s best season as a head coach, a 20-20 run in Minnesota cut maddeningly short by an impatient owner, does not exactly scream “overdue second-chance”, something made obvious by the two jobs Casey lost to the charming but ineffective Vinny Del Negro (Casey also was in consideration last summer for the Hawks’ coaching vacancy now being ably filled by Larry Drew). Currently, Casey plays assistant on the NBA’s hottest team in Dallas, a gig in which his head coach Rick Carlisle cannot believe he’s lucky enough to have Casey. Well-regarded does not even begin to describe the man’s reputation.

Then there’s McHale, lying in wait with his high-profile announcer job, extensive general manager experience (which should act as much of a detriment as a benefit for him) and gigantic reputation as a Hall-of-Fame player. His resume as an actual head coach is the spottiest of the three options, as it only includes two interim terms with the Timberwolves; the first has been hilariously mocked by former Timberwolf Anthony Carter, though his second run did feature some inspired play from former non-contributors like Sebastian Telfair and Randy Foye. His name will ring the loudest. He will instantly make the Rockets’ next season a curiosity for outside viewers, if not must-see TV. His hiring would also reek of a star-centric sensibility that Daryl Morey has never had; though Morey has obviously been pining for a legitimate NBA superstar for the last few years (um, who isn’t?), numerous proposed deals for names like Vince Carter and Baron Davis have been spurned because they simply did not make basketball sense.

No matter how much of an “intriguing gamble” hiring McHale might be, there’s something to be said about giving a guy with the perfect reputation, the guy who seems to be a perfect fit, a chance. For a few years, the Boston Celtics got lucky enough to keep the league’s best-regarded assistant to themselves, posting historic defensive numbers along the way. Then the Chicago Bulls took a chance and finally hired him. The kind of rudimentary logic that led to that hiring would likely lead the Rockets to Casey. Would emulating this year’s Bulls be so bad?

Thankfully, the man in complete control of the future of the Houston Rockets is not at all like me. No, Daryl Morey does his due diligence, seeks out his options and, when deciding which man will stalk the sidelines at Toyota Center next October, makes educated decisions based on the information gathered from a wide array of sources. Very wide. As in, “Daryl Morey is interviewing anyone without a job”-wide. Via ESPN:

Kevin McHale will join a long list of cadidates interviewing for the Houston Rockets coaching job, Yahoo! Sports reported Thursday.

A Hall of Famer as a player, McHale coached the Minnesota Timberwolves in 2005 and from 2008-09. He also served as the team’s general manager.

Former Rockets guard Sam Cassell, as well as former Oklahoma and Indiana coach Kelvin Sampson, will also interview, KRIV-TV in Houston reported Tuesday.

The article goes on to list possible targets for the head coaching job including Boston Celtics assistant coach Lawrence Frank, Los Angeles Lakers assistant Brian Shaw, San Antonio Spurs assistant Mike Budenholzer, Orlando Magic head coach Stan Van Gundy and real estate magnate Donald Trump. This is, of course, after the Rockets have already been attached to Dallas Mavericks assistanmt Dwane Casey, former coaches Mike Brown and Mike Woodson last week. Those Rockets… they really like their options. So much so that this is on the verge of celebrity tabloid papers reporting on the list of people with whom Famous Celebrity A had sex last week.

Initially, this feels like a great sign about the significance of the commitment that this Houston front office has made to doing its legwork on this all-important search that, apparently (as the Mavs look second-round-bound and the Magic have gained momentum), may not be over for a while. Who doesn’t want our front office to look at as many candidates as possible, casting a net wide enough to grab the right weirdo with a plan?

Still, some of these picks seem like half-hearted grasps at diaphanously thin straws. Kevin McHale, whose last turn as a T-Wolves coach went well enough before Al Jefferson went down with injury, has been described by former players as akin to “a kid just messing around (on an Etch-a-Sketch)” when trying to draw up plays. Sam Cassell has forever seemed a natural, inevitable head coach, but could a team in the Rockets’ proverbial shoes take a chance on a guy who was an assistant for one year on a 23-59 team? College coaches? Even the ones who have done work on NBA sidelines as assistants have trouble adjusting to the NBA grind.

The Rockets’ extended summer will be a giant question mark hovering above the team thanks to this prolonged, expanded hunt for a coach, but perhaps the question will be big enough that a matching answer could be found before the foreboding possible NBA lockout leaves basketball operations closed for any period of time. Hey, the Magic can’t make the Finals, can they?

Sources said that Casey is one of the more serious candidates on a long list of potential Houston targets to replace Rick Adelman, which stems partly from the Rockets’ high regard for Mavericks coach Rick Carlisle. Casey came to Dallas with Carlisle to run the Mavs’ defense starting with the 2008-09 season after posting a record of 53-69 in 1½ seasons as head coach of the Minnesota Timberwolves.

The 54-year-old Casey has been waiting for second shot at a top job since being dismissed by Minnesota with a record of 20-20 during the 2006-07 season. He narrowly missed out on coaching jobs last summer with the Atlanta Hawks and Los Angeles Clippers and ranks as one of the league’s most highly rated assistants.

Casey appears to be the tough-minded, over-prepared captain that every team with a roster of discombobulated parts could use to man their suddenly adrift ship (ANALOGY). Because of this, apparently every team that desperately could have used one of those (Clippers, Hawks, post-conference-finals Timberwolves) has passed up on Casey; it would only make sense that the wunderkind Daryl Morey would be the first NBA GM to know exactly how great of a choice Casey would make.

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.