Dancing With Noah

Just messing around, getting triple doubles

Tag Archives: basketball

Anticipation

2 Comments Posted by on October 30, 2012

As an NBA fan, I can’t help but have my favorites and least favorites. Besides being a dope name for a blog, Dancing with Noah is about expression, about the individual, about finding yourself and being comfortable in what you find. I wish I could say that was the case with me more often than it actually is, but as it stands, my partial self-discovery makes me honor and celebrate the individual even more intensely. But to take that idea even further, I celebrate the authentic individual even more if the journey is painful (isn’t it always?). That whole martyr yourself for yourself thing that’s not really a thing. But to make all this shit more relevant to this basketball world: I hope to god JR Smith blows up. I hope Earl Clark becomes a better Tim Thomas. I can still remember all the Eddy Curry scouting reports about how his gymnast background made him a light-footed, unstoppable giant…still waiting. I’ve mostly given up on Anthony Randolph, but that game when he goes for 18pts, 13rebs and 7 blocks, a small part of me will flicker…it’s the same part of me that wants to believe in ghosts and the supernatural…but that flicker of hope will be suffocated by the latex-gloved sterile hands of logic. And please don’t allow me to run alone through thickets of my imagination with Terrence Williams. Otherwise, I’ll be referencing D-League triple doubles, bad breaks, worse coaches and mini-Lebrons.

But on the eve of war, this is what I got:

LeBron James to Damion James,

Kobe Bryant to Koby Karl,

Travis Best to David, Delonte and Jerry West,

To the Griffins, here and gone … Blake, Adrian and Eddie

Drink to Kings and Sonics, Braves and Thunder, Vancouver and Memphis,

Lab geek rats and playgrounds,

Plus/minus, double rims, chain nets,

Crossover commonalities of Jay-Z and Tim Hardaway,

Learning the hard way,

Eddy Curry’s waistline to the baseline,

Mount Harden sitting on an ever-growing tangle of black forest,

Bynum’s knees channeling Bill Walton’s feet, Rose’s and Rubio’s ligaments, Eric Gordon’s fragility, breaking Bogut, culture-shocked Euros,

Bounce bounce bounce, we’re bouncing…

Playground to gymnasium to arena, stadium, center, garden, and Palace—aren’t we so royal?

When Ernie Johnson mentions your name on a Thursday night for the first time, you’ve made it,

Studios, columns, blogs, Twitters, predictions, swagger, anything’s possible, but only a few things will actually happen.

This is a Malcolm Gladwell explanation, it’s hard work, talent, discipline, sweat, soul, life, Sonny Vaccaro, William Wesley and your AAU coach, it’s a Michael Jordan poster and your first pair of Jordans (blue IVs for me), it’s all a dream like Biggie said,

A brotherhood (Grants, Lopez’s, Jones’s), fatherhood (Rivers’s, Karls, Currys, Thompsons), and parenthood (Shawn Kemp and Calvin Murphy)

Death too soon … (Reggie Lewis, Bias, Drazen, Duckworth, Pistol, Eddie Griffin, Bobby Phills, Tractor Traylor and Chris Street),

Fraternal orders, culture crossing …

It’s the eve of purpose for the Heat, Lakers, Thunder, and Spurs.

It’s the eve of hope for the Celtics, Pacers, Clippers, Nuggets, and Nets.

And above all else … it’s OK to be hopeful in the face of guaranteed failure.

It’s the final opening evening for a few, the first opening night for a few more, another in a boring series of many for the unappreciative, the 15th for Vince Carter, the second for Kyrie Irving, will be watched from home, if at all by Allen Iverson and Michael Olowokandi and I’m sure there’s at least one dude who thinks the season’s already started.

Dust off the kicks, squeak the soles of those shoes on the finely polished floor for the first time all over again, fire up League Pass, get your beverage of choice and some snacks and settle in for disappointment, fulfillment and surprise … this is basketball, this is life.

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Trust, Believability, Integrity and Mysterious Feuds

Leave a comment Posted by on October 26, 2012

When I found out about David Stern’s 2014 retirement date, I didn’t think too deeply about the practical implications of his departure, but my first thoughts went to the media’s reaction, Twitter nerds going bananas, what the response would be … I guess that’s more a function of my personal participation in the game so it makes sense that’s where my thoughts went.

In the midst of Thursday night’s NBA TV coverage and reading through Twitter, I came across a few things: First, David Stern and Adam Silver both have huge ears with floppy lobes that look like they wore ear spacers once or like something a cartoonist would draw. Second: Despite having completely different physical characteristics, Stern and Silver look alike—similar facial expressions, smirks, not smiles, wet eyes, big ears. Third: Yahoo’s Adrian Wojnarowski took Stern to the woodshed as he’s done so many times before.

This latest shot started out: “The biggest ego in the history of the sport, the emperor of the NBA …” Even a half-assed perusal of Wojnarowski’s 1,095 stories on Yahoo will reveal a small mountain of shells from the shots Woj has taken at Stern over the years. Here’s a far-from-in-depth grab:

12/9/11: The curtain has been pulled back on how this league operates, how Stern still sees himself as emperor, as a dictator of what he wants and how he wants it. Back on All-Star weekend in Los Angeles, Stern told those stars in an angry, true moment in the locker room that he knew where the bodies were buried because he had buried a lot of them. He threw that shovel over his shoulder again Thursday and walked away from one more dirt ditch.

6/30/11: And say goodbye to David Stern’s legacy, which will look like that of one more star player who stayed too long in the game, who was the last to know when it all passed him by.

6/24/11: Stern is no longer the sport’s leader, its moral compass, but the errand boy of the fringe owners.

10/19/09:  Yes, this behavior would’ve bought an NBA coach and GM the wrath of Emperor Stern, but Maccabi had international immunity.

1/30/09: When David Stern had the relentless resolve to make everyone forget the debauchery of a lost All-Star weekend on the Vegas Strip and a mobbed-up dirty referee, the commissioner turned New Orleans into a post-Katrina photo-op for the NBA’s beleaguered brand. He made sure every paint-brush stroke, every stunted swing of a hammer, had camera lenses to bear witness to the world.

10/30/06:  And it keeps him here on the 15th floor of the Olympic Tower, chasing tomorrow even after his longtime football contemporary, Tagliabue, called it a career. Eventually, the NBA has a way of bending to the commissioner’s will. There’s a relentless way to Stern that forever finds him getting his vision validated, getting his league his way.

That last one is from nearly six years ago when Wojnarowski wrote his first column for Yahoo. I didn’t have the pleasure of reading Woj prior to his Yahoo days, but I’m assuming this biting view of Stern has been a part of his writing for longer than just six years. Anyone familiar with his work knows he saves his most scathing tones and insults for the league’s most powerful—the guys who appear to be capable, but choose not to live up to the lofty standards their roles demand of them; namely Lebron James and David Stern.

As I was reading through his latest story on Thursday night, I shook my head at the remarkable consistency, the venom, the spittle, the intensity of his assault. I can imagine him pacing back and forth in his home office, wearing the carpet thin with a mug of coffee in his hand (likely his fourth or fifth), talking through the column—mostly in his head, but occasionally muttering words. Maybe there’s a dog following him around, getting wound up from the rising energy in the room. Maybe he chews on a pencil or a pen, jotting down ideas and phrases. Whatever the methodology, the end result is nothing short of a tamed hurricane made of words.

Impassioned words like this don’t just pop out of thin air. They’re cultivated over time and from something deep seeded; something a man feels in his muscles and nerves, way down in the core, something that makes his nostrils flare and his jaw clench. But as I wrote a friend an email about Stern last night, I wondered what I’ve always wondered: Where’s this axe to grind come from? Is there a hidden story we don’t know about? Somewhere along the line, did Stern insult a young Wojnarowski and scar him in the process? And to take the soap opera further: Stern has to know about Wojnarowski, right? He has to know this guy with the dark hair and glasses who looks more like a high school science teacher or an economist is slicing him up with razor blades every couple months, right? What’s it like when these two cross paths at NBA press conferences? Is Stern dropping a “cocksucker” under his breath when he passes Woj? Does Woj respond with a deliberate “prick?” I hope so, but I have my doubts.

As much as my imagination and my dependence on Hollywood for any sense of a storyline (conflict conflict conflict!) want to believe there’s this hidden personal feud between Commissioner David Stern and Adrian Wojnarowski, but unfortunately, I’ve got to accept Woj’s impeccable record here. His style is to bust the balls of anyone who crosses the NBA’s version of a 38th parallel (Dwight Howard, Gilbert Arenas, James, Stern)—and in extreme circumstances attempt to castrate them. And while occasionally, it does feel like he’s unfairly targeting a few unlucky characters; time has consistently revealed his portrayals, while aggressive, are honest and accurate.

Which leads to the next-to-last point in this Stern saga: If you believe Wojnarowski’s descriptions of Stern, if you accept the words of this well-respected journalist who has little to gain by publicly trashing the commissioner of the league he covers; then you have to acknowledge that David Stern is a real asshole, the kind of guy you’d despise and about whom you’d say things like, “if I didn’t work for him and he said that to me, I’d knock his old ass out,” the kind of guy you could actually describe as diabolical (maybe it’s a stretch, but let’s go with it). Think about that. How many diabolical people do you know? And if you know one or some, how hard do you try to limit your contact with those people? Woj describes him as a “dictator,” “emperor,” “errand boy,” paints him as a manipulator, a bully, a puppet master, ruthless. These are all fine characteristics if you’re Gordon fucking Gekko, but Commissioner Stern? The sweet looking old guy with that shit eating grin who’s always trying to convince us that the “NBA Cares?”

The final point; from the defenders of Stern—which, not surprisingly, include every employee of NBA TV and any player willing to get in front of a camera and say a few words about the Commissioner. He’s been successful; his job isn’t to make friends or be nice, his job is to make money for the league and the owners and you can’t argue against the success, just the approach. I have a huge book sitting on my bookshelf that I’ve never read. It’s the Steve Jobs biography and while I haven’t read it myself, I’m aware that Jobs had a reputation for pushing Apple employees to their breaking point, but it was always in the name of something larger; a strive for perfection in Apple products and judging by the cult of Apple acolytes and the ever-rising stock price, it’s fair to say Jobs was successful in his endeavors—just like Stern. For me, the big difference (again, not knowing all the details of Jobs’ backstory) is the ruthlessness that Stern has controlled his image whereas Jobs spoke openly about his intensity and approach. Successful? Yes, but at what cost?

If you think it’s just business for Woj and not personal, then you’ve got to be circling 2/1/14 as a day to celebrate. And if you refuse to accept that premise … then your imagination’s probably doing its own thing and trying to speculate on exactly what happened between these two men. The last option … you believe Stern was the greatest Commissioner in pro sports history … and you work for the NBA.

Whose fury are we looking at?

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Remembering Keyon Dooling

Leave a comment Posted by on September 25, 2012

Keyon Dooling retired and it doesn’t leave much more than a footnote in the greater basketball history that rolls forward in freight train fashion, weighed down with players whose careers earned more inky and statistical significance than Dooling’s. I struggle with the meaning, with the place Dooling occupies in the evolving landscape. That he came of age around the same time as me is no trivial detail in my Dooling relations.

My memories of the combo-guard date back to the late 90s when I lived in Iowa and Key was just south at Mizzou. Was Norm Stewart still coaching? The Big 8 had just become the Big 12 and Dooling supposedly had hops, good dunker, strong athlete, but I never envisioned him as a pro. He didn’t have that pre-tragedy Ronnie Fields electricity and I struggle to get over the prejudices I hold towards 6’3” combo guards: What are you? I need definition like Dooling needed two more inches—although a lot of good it did his old Mizzou teammate, Kareem Rush. So Dooling escaped my simplistic ideas and did so for 12 long, hard years as a quality rotation guy on six different teams.

He etched himself into my memory at Missouri, but it was years later with the Orlando Magic that he finally revealed himself. Orlando was visiting the Sonics and I was seated in the upper deck somewhere in Key Arena, when a little friction occurred between Dooling and Ray Allen. I don’t recall if punches were thrown, but there were tackles, glares, posturing and I could feel the rising tension all the way up in my nosebleed seat. It was that uncomfortable fight or flight feeling, that deeply primal sensation most of us encounter as kids and try to avoid as adults. Then they were both gone; ejected and calm was restored. I later read Steve Francis’s post-game comments that “Ray didn’t want none of Key.” And whether it was more of a shot at Ray’s crisp, straight-laced image or a reference to some well-known reputation of Dooling’s, I’ll never know, but I chose to believe the latter. In a league full of posturing and fugazi, was Keyon Dooling one of the real ones, the genuine articles?

Whatever he was to the NBA, I’ll remember Keyon Dooling for his days at Missouri, his scrap with Ray Allen, his deep brown skin, a headband wrapped around his close-cropped hair, glaring eyes, scrunched up scowling face and an oddball jersey number like 55 or 51.

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Community (aka, connecting the dots between Reggie Miller, Springfield Mass and pickup hoops at lunch)

Leave a comment Posted by on September 9, 2012

A week ago, I had the good fortune of passing through Springfield, Massachusetts and stopping off at the Basketball Hall of Fame where I spent a couple hours acting like a kid in an interactive Toys’ R’ Us museum. I gawked and stared at the memorabilia and basked (no joke) in the memories the photos brought to mind. I took a picture of the player photos that surround the interior dome of the BHoF and sent it to my basketball-loving amigos and in the same manner I was drawn to the game back in the late 80s, the focus orbited around Michael Jordan.

MJ at the Center

On the ground floor of the BHoF is a full court with baskets at each end, a couple ball racks with an assortment of basketballs available for the old and young alike to shoot hoops to their hearts’ content. Most people start the journey at the top floor and work their way down to the court and of course the gift shop. On each level as I worked my way down, I saw males of varying skill levels shooting around on these hoops. Some enjoyed the monasterial qualities of the setting while others seemed oblivious to their surroundings and shot with a freedom of awareness. And the reason I specifically call out males is because I didn’t see a single woman nor girl shooting on this day which isn’t meant as a commentary on the gender ceiling of the sport as women’s photos lined the dome above. Of course I arrived at the ground floor and while my wife sat on the bleachers with other wives, girlfriends and parents, I peacefully shot jumpers—in jeans and flip flops. Just like any other court I’ve ever been on where multiple people are shooting, there was an understanding, a common courtesy that you’d grab a stray ball for another shooter if it came your way and they’d do the same for you. This pre-knowledge automatically creates an unspoken agreement between people shooting around. So without even knowing the guys I was shooting with, I already had a relationship of sorts. And it was a peaceful shoot around even though I was admonished by one of the Hall’s employees for stepping to the half-court line and taking a few dribbles in preparation of a half court heave, “No half-court shots!” he shouted from the sideline. I laughed a bit realizing that I’m a 31-year-old man who was about to fire up a half-court shot at the BHoF. If that’s not enough evidence that basketball and the BHoF specifically can bring the little boy out of the grown man, then this exchange I witnessed as I was walking off the court should do the job: A man in his late 20s or early 30s was enthusiastically chucking up jumpers. Like me, he wasn’t wearing something like jeans and a button down and as I passed, I heard a woman standing near him (she was clearly his significant other) say in jokingly motherly tone, “OK, one more shot and then we’re leaving.” But he wasn’t ready to go, because we never are.

The Court from above

Here I am now, just over a week later watching a recording of the BHoF speeches from a few days ago. Reggie Miller’s speaking and referencing inside jokes that I kind of get. He calls Magic “Buck” and jabs him in the ribs about teaching him how to “lie and cheat” (at which point my thoughts uncomfortably jump to Magic’s legendary promiscuity that led to HIV)—that’s the backhand; the compliment comes when he articulates that lying and cheating are actually virtues of a “win by any means necessary” attitude. We get it because we’re on the inside and have read or heard about Magic’s compulsive competiveness in books and interviews, blogs and podcasts. Reggie gave a genuine, if not brotherly, credit to his sister Cheryl for raising the level of his family’s name and his basketball game. For the basketballiteratti, we already knew this and can judge and assess whether or not Reggie or Cheryl was the more relevant or greater Miller. We’ve heard the famous story about Reggie coming home from a high school game, pumped up because he scored 30 or 40 points and then he asked Cheryl how her game went and she’s all modest, “I scored 105 points.” We’re in the interpretive inner-circle; we know and nod or shake our heads.

And so many of these feelings of inclusion, of being a part of the inside joke or reference, were on display at the BHoF. I walked through the halls of the hall with my wife and pointed out random facts, stats and moments. I showed off out of childish enthusiasm: This is my area of expertise, this is what I know. Watching this induction ceremony with a sense of the physical space and history binds me into the knots of the game that continues to give and teach me so much. As I consider the infinite reach of basketball, I connect the aforementioned history to weekly pickup games with co-workers at Denny Park in Seattle where the quality of play falls in the bottom 50% globally (that’s not a good thing); I play with fellow cubicle dwellers shooting 35% from the field and averaging something like 13 turnovers per-36 minutes. We blame the shabby performances on things like age, ethnic and genetic athletic limitations and of course those impossibly sturdy symbols of American industry: The Double Rim. But excuses aside, we play and participate in a massive global community that was celebrated in Springfield, Massachusetts less than a week ago. We celebrate our physical possibilities, not our limitations, through our participation in this great, Naismith-given game. Our games at Denny Park on Fridays are tiny threads in the fabric of global basketball and at some level come with an awareness in all of us of the history that inspired and motivated us to step onto the court in the first place and continues to do so, week after week, year after year, in Seattle, Springfield and all points in between.

 

 

Dan Issel Nuggets uni; it’s old, it’s heavy. You could wear those warmups in freezing temps and be comfy.

Lot of huge shoes at the BHoF.

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Day One: Agony & Ecstasy Already?

Leave a comment Posted by on April 29, 2012

It didn’t take long for the big red balloon of optimism to pop over the city of Chicago and rain down tears in the shapes of dripping red-hued question marks. All the finger pointing in the world (at Thibodeau, at the shortened season, at Derrick’s delicate 2012 body) won’t put Derrick’s ACL back together again, so let’s march on for a quick review of Saturday’s agonies and ecstasies:

Philly at Chicago, game one: The Bulls were their controlled, dominant selves with Rip Hamilton flashing and dashing off baseline screens and running Philly defenders ragged like it was 2004 all over again. If the Bulls, sans Rose, can somehow continue to score close to 100 points, this series won’t last long. They know how to behave with C.J. Watson at the helm and will continue to execute Thibodeau’s air tight game plans, but can Doug Collins’s squad find a way to step up their defense and put points on the board against a stubborn Bulls team? I don’t know, but I’m guessing Lavoy Allen is not the answer.

Random fact: Chicago was 22-0 when scoring 100 points or more this season.

New York at Miami, game one: 100 to 67? So much for the hype machine, Melo vs. Bron, Amar’e vs. Bosh, Shumpert vs. Wade (?) and New York’s three-point bombing bench. This was supposed to be the matchup we were all slobbering over, but instead game one had that dreamlike falling feeling, but we never woke up; or at least the Knicks didn’t wake up. Since no one really knows who the Knicks are (Knicks included), it’s impossible to imagine what we’ll get in the next three to six games, but my buddy Bug made a great, although mostly unrelated, point: Miami with Tyson Chandler instead of Chris Bosh would be a nightmare.

Random fact: Miami finished the regular season 18-0 when shooting over 50% as a team. Translation: LeBron and Dwyane: Don’t give into temptation, avoid the three.

Tragic ending: To Iman Shumpert’s season. Like Rose an hour or so before, the rookie who’d been somewhat prematurely anointed as one of the league’s top perimeter defenders (already?) tore his ACL as well.

Orlando at Indiana, game one: Here’s another one I caught on the highlight reel. The stories of this game: Danny Granger wet the bed, Roy Hibbert blocked nine shots (life’s a lot simpler when you get Big Baby instead of Dwight Howard) and Stan Van Gundy continues to build support in the ongoing Dwight vs. Stan feud.

Random fact: The Magic is 10-1 all-time when winning game one of a series.

Dallas at OKC, game one: The legend of Kevin Durant continues to grow. He got a true shooter’s bounce to win the game for OKC and send the bench and hometown fans in euphoria. Even though some of the names and faces have changed and James Harden’s beard takes up a little more mass, it felt like carryover from last year’s Western Conference Finals—minus Dirk being perpetually en fuego.

Rejected!: OKC led the league in blocks per game and their 8.2bpg is the fifth most per-game total in league history. They tallied eleven blocks on Saturday.

Sunday’s games added more piss and vinegar to the mix (we see you, Rajon). I’ll be back here tomorrow with another recap. And in the meantime, leave us all to ponder if anyone plays with a Marc Gasolian zeal for the game. It’s like he took all that energy his brother has channeled into primordial roars and re-directed it to positivity and an acknowledgement that he’s paid to play basketball for a living.

2012 Playoffs, Chicago Bulls, Dallas Mavericks, Indiana Pacers, Miami Heat, New York Knicks, Orlando Magic, Philadelphia 76ers , , ,

Basketballs Scattered Across the Spring

1 Comment Posted by on April 26, 2012

It’s been a short, compact, but winding road to finally arrive at the end of this 66-game battle of attrition. We’ve seen cornballs, meatballs, basketballs, big men in nerdy Lewis Skolnick glasses. We’ve seen a return to the gates of paradise for the league’s old guard. Kobe Bryant, Timmy D, KG, Paul Pierce and Steve Nash have applied stiff arms to father time. Thanks to some clumsy statements and an inability to wipe that shit eating grin off his face, Dwight Howard is now competing with LeBron for the league’s least likable superstar. Speaking of Dwight, the league’s two best bigs have revealed themselves as entitled brats (Andrew Bynum being the second) and Blake Griffin has come to embody a kind of dickhead we all encounter somewhere in life’s journeys…all in 66 games.

I’m a man and feel emotions like men do. And anger and frustration are emotions I feel. A part of me relishes pointing the accusatory, judgmental finger at an egotist like Dwight or bullies like Blake and Bynum. They’re easy targets who paint big ol’ bulls-eyes on their backs and fronts with their sullen, selfish behaviors. So if I venture away from a celebratory tone, just know it’s because I’m a whole human who cries sometimes when I wish I could laugh.

Today’s post is a pointless journey over the past four months of NBA madness. There have been so many details and tidbits overlooked in post-game write-ups and hometown blogs that it’s impossible to catalog them all here without some kind of web-scraping tool that understands context and the use of irony in the English language. I’m not going for comprehensive, just memories and impressions and sore thumbs—because we all know they stick out so much.

Taking Pleasure in Someone Else’s Failure: The Los Angeles Clippers: You can’t call it a failure considering they’ll likely end up with the four seed in the west and have one of the most entertaining one-two punches in recent memory, but with the emergence of Bynum and Kobe thriving off will, muscle memory and craftiness, the Lakers are still the big brother. Cool out, Lob City, or whatever you’re calling yourselves. And for God’s sake, someone (I vote Reggie Evans and Kenyon Martin) put a ball-gag in Mo Williams’s mouth when reporters come around.

Jekyll & Hyde honor for an inability to grasp a singular identity: The New York Knicks: It’s the Melo and Amare show with Tyson Chandler’s championship mentality anchoring the defense. No, no, it’s Jeremy Lin and role players pick and rolling the opposition to death. Err, let’s dump D’Antoni and hand the reigns over to Melo and Mike Woodson. All that in just 66 games. Imagine what Dolan and company could’ve done in a full season.

The John Edwards Memorial: Billy Hunter and Derek Fisher: Speaking of two faces, it’s no wonder the labor negotiations dragged out so long with these two feuding like basketball Hatfield and McCoys—complete with Hunter’s entire family being on the NBPA’s payroll in one form or another. Given that we went from an independent audit of the union’s books (ie; Billy Hunter) at Fisher’s request to an 8-0 vote by the union’s executive committee for Fisher to step down, it feels like Hunter’s pulling strings with his pinky rings. I wouldn’t be surprised if News Corp is somehow involved in all of this.

So So Bad Michael Jordan All-Stars: The Charlotte Bobcats: Everyone’s getting their licks in on MJ these days and why not? The go-for-the-jugular mentality that suited him so well on the court has made a jackass out of him as an owner and in the front office. After hearing MJ’s role as one of the vocal small market owners hoping to crush players in labor negotiations, it’s depressingly satisfying to see a team he helped craft struggle like this. And I got money that Paul Silas would hand it to Tyrus Thomas.

Don’t Worry, it’s just Karma: The Portland Trailblazers: I know business is business and from everything I’ve read, Darius Miles was somewhat difficult (understatement) during his tenure in the City of Roses, but I can’t ever forget the Blazers attempting to cash in on his knee injury and force him into an early retirement. Were these the same doctors who gave Greg Oden a once over before the draft? Or perhaps the same front office that knew Roy had a degenerative knee condition and still gave him an extended contract? Reducing it all to something as man-made as “bad luck” seems too simplistic.

We were wrong about you, but we’re still not sorry: David Kahn: Before MJ pulled a kamikaze move as the pilot of the Bobcats, we told jokes about Kahn’s ineptitude and laughed at the punch lines with Chris Webber and all felt like insiders. These days, Kahn is adored in Minneapolis the way Kim Jong Il was adored in Pyongyang…and Minny didn’t even make the playoffs. The bar has officially been lowered.

Who is he and what is he to you?: Terrence Williams: A first round pick by the Nets in 2009, T-Will has played on three teams in three seasons, seen at least one stint in the D-League, ended up in at least two coach’s doghouses and yet still possesses one of the most versatile games in the NBA—at 24-years-old. He must be pissing someone (or everyone) off, but we never get straight dope on the guy. Since I’ve been advocating his game since his Louisville days, I feel obligated to stand by my assessment that Terrence can ball. And ball he does! Since the Kings picked him up after Houston dumped him, I’ve caught a few of his performances and on several occasions he’s been the best player on the floor. He can shoot, run the offense as a 6’6” (might be an inch smaller) point guard, beat bigger defenders off the dribble and beat smaller guys on the boards. Is he Terrence the Terrible or just a baby Bron?

I’ll put trademarks around your fuckin’ eyes: The League: Maybe it was the funky schedule, missed paychecks or injuries, but something felt a little edgier this season. After all the cool kids and super friends BS and the clamoring of every former player that the league’s gone soft, the players developed a bit more animosity towards each other this year. It’s not quite McHale on Rambis (which, if it happened today would be panned by the same ex-players as a dirty play), but the Clips-Lakers, Lakers-Mavs, Heat-Bulls, Celtics-Heat, Bulls-Pacers have all displayed a genuine dislike for each other and if the popularity of the MMA or the NFL is any example, we should all be pleased by this extra aggression.

Billy, listen to me: White men can’t jump: Kevin Love: Is it possible to discuss American-born white NBA players without race coming up? It is, but I wanted to get that White Men Can’t Jump reference in so we’re going there. And while the myth has been debunked by Bones Barry and a slew of other white guys with hops, by and large, white guys aren’t getting off the ground with the same spring as their black counterparts and Kevin Love is no exception. He’s the best non-vertical rebounder since Danny Fortson’s six-game stretch with Golden State in 2000 when he was snagging 16+ rebounds/game. But that’s where the Love-Fortson comparison ends. Kevin Love is the best power forward in the league. Danny Fortson was just the best Danny Fortson in the league.

Good Guys Wear Black: The San Antonio Spurs: This group of the Spurs has been around so long that they’ve earned the begrudging respect of fans who know Tim Duncan from his Wake Forest days. From slow, plodding, “right” basketball to an intelligent, opportunistic transition game, they’ve been revamped and apparently I can’t stop writing about a team I loathed as recently as three or four years ago. Hate if you must, but just know it’s misplaced.

Old School Jams: 1996 NBA Draft: What if we sat down over peanut butter and bananas on toast the morning after the 1996 draft and broke it down player-by-player and I told you with a straight face that by 2012 Allen Iverson would be broke and blackballed by the league, Stephon Marbury would be king of the Chinese pro league, Ray Allen would be the greatest three-point shooter in league history, that preps-to-pros punk who speaks Italian would be a five-time champ and one of the toughest and most prolific scorers in league history, Steve Nash would still be plugging away as a two-time MVP (as many as Kobe and Iverson combined, say word?) and one of the top PGs in the league—at 38-years-old?

Factoids, anecdotes and achievements have bounced across the ticker and Twitterverse for the past four months like an endless rack of basketballs kicked across the gym floor; something of value to be found in each bounce of each ball if only to the crazy hardcore and mildly addicted. After all, it’s just basketball, but here we are …

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3 x 15 Club welcomes Rajon!

3 Comments Posted by on March 4, 2012

In a week when rumors ran rampant that the Celtics were “aggressively” looking to trade their enigmatically styled point guard, little Rajon Rondo responded by blowing the dust off his headband and putting Boston on his back in a Sunday matinee against the Knicks. Rondo went for 18 points, 17 rebounds and 20 assists in the overtime victory. That line is crazy even if came with a D’Antoni caveat.

To put Rondo’s statistical performance into context, I took a journey to Basketball-Reference.com’s Player Game Finder and found out that since 1985, only three other players have performed the improbable 3 x 15 (15 points, 15 rebounds, 15 assists in one game):

Rondo, more exclusive than secret societies.

**I didn’t see the tail end of ABC’s Knicks-Celtics broadcast today, so if they flashed some stat graphs referencing the numbers above, I can’t be accused of stat-jacking since I had no awareness of its existence.

Boston Celtics, Guess I'm Strange, STATS , , , ,

Alternative Chapters: OJ Mayo

Leave a comment Posted by on January 19, 2012

Once or twice before, I’ve mentioned my yet-to-be-published (or even started) Choose Your Own Adventure, NBA-style doorstop of a book based on trades or signings that didn’t quite happen (Chris Paul to Lakers is and will continue to be the Mount Everest of What-Ifs based on circumstance alone). Well, today is the first extension of that concept; what I’ll refer to as an Alternative Chapter. It’s nothing more than me channeling my imagination to come up with a (somewhat plausible) scenario for a team or player that strays away from reality. Today’s Alternative Chapter features the pride of Huntington, West Virginia, O.J. Mayo.

Mayo’s only in his fourth season in the NBA, but it feels like we’re all old friends because his name has been plastered across prep headlines since he was named to the all-state first-team in Kentucky … as an eighth grader.

At this point, I’ll stop and posit a theory about O.J. Mayo. Scouts, high school beat writers, opponents, fans and junkies (of the hoop variety) accelerated the Mayo hype-wagon in part (large, small, medium part?) because of his name. O.J. Mayo is not a name we easily forget. Oh-jay-may-oh (or you could say it like this). Say it enough and it will stick to your mind like bugs splattered across your windshield. Had he been named Jeff Ridges, the likelihood of his rapid rise through the prep rankings may have taken a longer, more traditional and healthy route. Instead, Mayo’s been ingrained in the basketball zeitgeist since 2002. Great exposure brings great expectations and that’s where the reality of Mayo has fallen short. This whole concept is applicable beyond the basketball court and should likely be addressed by Malcolm Gladwell if someone else hasn’t cracked the code already.

Onto the Alternative Chapter …

Every few weeks, O.J. Mayo’s name is mentioned in trade rumors … to the Bulls, to the Pacers, to the Nets. There’s the consoling, “Well someone wants me,” but after multiple failed trades, even a basketball vagabond like Mayo wonders, “Am I really wanted … by anyone?” These doubts are human (and potentially canine), but they make any of us feel unwanted and unloved. And since we the fans have been reading about the great O.J. Mayo for years already, maybe we’re tired of his undersized two-guardness, his catchy name, the constant trade rumors and the confusion of his game not living up to the hype (“I thought he was supposed to be better?”). Maybe we don’t want him either.

Fast forward to May 2012 when the sixth seed Grizzlies are bounced in game six against the Lakers in Memphis. After suffering a sprained ankle in game five, Tony Allen is forced to sit out the next game which means Mayo draws the start and gets the luxury of guarding Kobe Bryant. Between games five and six, reporters bait Mayo into a headline-making comment and he sadly takes the hook; cracking a joke about the time he “locked Kobe up” in a game of one-on-one. Not that Kobe needed more motivation for an elimination game, but he attacks Mayo inside and out, abusing the smaller guard without mercy. After Bryant scores 16 in the first quarter, Mayo’s confidence is shaken and it shows on offense where his performance brings up Starksian memories from the early 90s—just another small shooting guard lining up the sights for a soon-to-be-Hall of Famer. He shoots 1-14 from the field. His coach, Lionel Hollins ends his misery with two minutes left in the third quarter and benches Mayo in favor of the rangy Quincy Pondexter. Mayo exits to a cold chorus of boos from the hometown fans; his last time in a Grizzlies jersey.

The season over, a team option on his fifth year, Mayo gets out of Memphis as soon as he’s able. Bags packed, he ventures to the Caribbean for a couple weeks of quiet, uninterrupted reflection. His beard grows unkempt, his hair ‘fros out, unbrushed. Despite the images of a black Castaway, his mind is clear and upon return stateside, he meets with his agent Rob Pelinka. While the Grizzlies have rejected the team option, Pelinka excitedly rattles off teams that have contacted him regarding his client’s services. The refreshed Mayo cuts him off. He’s done, he says. Tired of the games and politics. Tired of the unfair expectations (“Don’t they know Kobe’s 6’7” … at least 6’7”!?!?”). He demands Pelinka look into Spanish opportunities (“I’ve already talked to Marc (Gasol) about it.”).

The first hint that Spain offered refuge

And that’s how O.J. Mayo came to join FCB Regal (aka, FC Barcelona) of the Spanish top division. He signed for one year to “get your confidence back” as Pelinka put it. Mayo didn’t disagree. He arrived in September and played for about a third of the money he would’ve made in the NBA. Sadly, Euro legend Pete Mickeal retired due to a degenerative knee condition, but close one man’s window and another man often hurls a basketball through it, then climbs in and that’s what Mayo did.

Like so many expats before him, Mayo was revived by a new culture and new people. The passion of the fans brought back nostalgia for the high school crowds he played to nearly a decade before and his game thrived. In his first season alone, Barcelona won the rare treble: the domestic Copa del Rey, the ACB Championship and the Euro League title. This wasn’t any indictment of the quality of Spanish league basketball; just the realization of O.J. Mayo’s potential.

The record books and tales of Mayo’s long stay in the Spanish league are much too long for the meager space allotted here. Just know that the acceptance and sense of inclusion that was so hard to come by in the Association was made readily available by his teammates and fans in Barcelona.

Alternative Chapters, Memphis Grizzlies , , , ,

This is not the burial, it’s the resurrection

Leave a comment Posted by on December 3, 2011

Hey kids, gather round. We’re 22 days away from tipping off the 2011-12 NBA regular season. From the outside looking in, the acrimony between the owners and players seems like it happened years ago. It might be winter, but we’re in the midst of a great thawing. Everyone’s already resuming their natural roles (front offices and agents negotiating, players working out at team facilities, players angling for trades via the media—just like riding a bike) and sticking to the script. Despite the oncoming maelstrom of transactions, it all feels serene and peaceful now that the lockout is mostly over.

As we move into year one of this six-year truce, I intend to write a brief prologue of each of the league’s 30 teams. Since we have roughly three weeks until the season starts and I work a full-time job, it’s altogether possible that I’m undertaking too much and will suffocate under the weight like a small man under a large garbage pile. It’s also worth acknowledging that the league might move too fast for me. If I write that the Nets have a gaping hole at power forward and then they sign David West; there’s nothing to be done—except a quick edit which probably won’t happen (I owe you honesty if nothing else).

So without wasting any more of your time or my time, let’s look to the future and hope for the sunny days.

*Art provided by Ben Goodspeed … check him out at http://bengoodspeed.com

NBA Preview ,

Ghosts on Video

Leave a comment Posted by on August 2, 2011

We’re well past the point of finding out about basketball feats of greatness or folly via word of mouth. If it happened on a court, no matter how grainy or shaky, someone’s recording it and posting it on Youtube.

Unless it’s a Powerade commercial, video’s indisputable and sheds sunlight on performances where eye-witness accounts either fall short or overexaggerate. And fortunately, there’s great video evidence of Kevin Durant‘s 66-point performance at the Rucker League last night–a mid-summer reminder of why we keep watching this game.

From the New York Post’s Joseph Staszewski

Kevin Durant’s performance created an evening for the ages at Rucker Park. The Oklahoma City Thunder All-Star shook off a slow start and poured in an astounding 66 points to lead DC Power to a 99-93 win over the Sean Bell All-Stars in front of a standing-room only crowd at the Entertainers Basketball Classic on Monday night at streetball’s most famous park. Durant, who led the NBA in scoring last season, connected on 9-of-11 3-pointers, including five straight from well beyond NBA range, early in the fourth quarter. The 6-foot-9 forward was mobbed on the court by fans standing along the sidelines after a fifth straight trey.“I always wanted to play in Rucker Park all my life,” Durant said in a postgame interview with park emcee Hannibal.

 True to the culture, there are reams of video clips from this performance; including a variety of angles, points of view, various video lengths, etc. The video below captures the temperature from the ground floor:

It’s one thing to read Staszewski’s account, but the video goes a step further and communicates the raw emotion and energy on the court and in the crowd; as well as communicating Durant’s frightening height advantage over his opponents.

I think we all prefer to at least have the option to see what’s really happening instead of reading or hearing about it second-hand from a friend who’s prone to embellishment. In the process of using video to document every notable event, we lose some of the mystique and fairytale elements that draw us to sports. A perfect example is the often-discussed, but (conveniently) never-seen scrimmage among the members of the 1992 USA Dream Team. Magic vs. Michael, accompanied by the greatest supporting casts in the history of the basketball playing world. Anyone who saw this scrimmage or even heard about it believes it was one of the greatest basketball games ever played, but only a handful of eyeballs were privileged to witness it. There’s a divine and mythical quality to it that verifiable performances like Durant’s 66 at Rucker or LeBron’s 4th quarter evisceration of the Pistons in the 2007 playoffs are lacking.

This isn’t the death of storytelling or personal experience and I’m not an advocate of personal interpretation over truth. It’s sad that we’re running out of these unseen moments, but our need to see and share every event is overwhelming and I’m far from one to impede obvious progress in favor of nostalgia. The dark flipside to this is the infamous, uncatchable Twitter hacker and the trend of athlete junk floating around the internets, but that’s another sad story for another slow day.

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