Playing the Darko Way

While I’m thrilled to have an opportunity to play for the FreeDarko franchise I grew up rooting for, I’m also more than a little worried about fucking things up. Dr. LawyerIndianChief is notorious for not playing rookies, and I know that any reckless play will quickly land me back on the bench. So consider this my attempt to set picks, crash the boards, and commit Fortson like fouls. In short, I’ll be posting the way my namesake played the game. Hopefully, over time, I’ll grow comfortable in the FreeD system and the world will be blessed with sonnets on the elegant footwork of Tim Duncan. But for the time being I’m sticking with fundamentals.

If this blog has taught us anything, it’s that THIS IS A LEAGUE OF STYLE. Shoals may have trademarked the mantra, but every visitor to the site seems to have tacitly embraced it. When the league announced the dress code during the off-season, many worried that it would impinge upon that very thing that made the league so special. However, if recent spreads in various glossy magazines are any indicator, the style we hold so dear is in no danger, and might even be approaching a renaissance.

First off comes a story from the upcoming issue of Recluse’s favorite mag, Esquire. Apparently Penny Marshall wanted to cast Mr. Stop Snitching as the lead in a movie she’s producing. Unfortunately, Penny, despite her years as a Lakers AND Clippers season ticket holder, didn’t quite grasp the significance of style to the Association and required that Carmelo cut off his cornrows for the part. Once informed of this requirement, Melo responded, and I quote: “Penny, you out yo’ damn mind!” Atta boy Melo. Hold out for Spike or at least a reunion with Antoine Fuqua. If you’re capable of creating a concept as brilliant as that B More spot, then you certainly don’t need Laverne DeFazio ordering you around.

Next is something that appears to be a recent NBA trend. I’m not talking about the resurgence of the run, but rather the trend of starlet-fucking foreign point guards posing for GQ. Tony Parker posed for the November issue, and now Nash has followed suit in this month’s edition. To be fair, NBA figures gracing GQ is certainly not a recent development.

However, these latest spreads, particularly Nash’s, have taken it to a new level. Parker plays it pretty safe, exclusively donning suits from the big boys (Gucci, Armani, Calvin, and Ralph Lauren) with a dash of French effeminacy thrown in for fun. Frankly, I'm not sure anyone this pretty will ever be able to thrive in June.

Nash, on the other hand, appears to be going to great lengths to prove that, like seemingly every other Canadian long-hair, he’s indie as fuck. With the pic on the left I'd like to say Stevie pulls off the Joe Strummer look, but the sad fact is that he ends up coming closer to the lead singer of The Bravery. And who knows what he was going for on the right? Derelicte?

But somehow Nash has carried this look beyond the photo shoot and passed it to his young oop connect. Actually, I don't think we can fairly give Nash credit for this even though Amare does rock the too-short tie. No, this is uniquely Amare. It just comes as a bit of surprise given that Young Stoudemire had previously only been seen in t-shirts, usually of the Tupac variety. But what’s important here, is that it is perhaps the best example yet that Commissioner Stern will never be able to block out the bright light of fashion that burns at the heart of the Association, no matter how hard he tries to blanket it with collared shirts and sport coats. Nope, everything’s regulation here David. Jacket and tie? Check. Dress jeans? Check. Button up? Check. And I ask you, dear reader, is there anything more formal than silver shoes?

Finally, last week Ron Artest had the internet goin' nutz with his TruWarier haircut. Some pundits have incorrectly given Anthony Mason credit for originating this style, but I'm pretty sure Rodman had the razorwrite game going long before Mase came around. Ahh, Rodman. The Worm serves as proof that NBA style can be taken too far, and illustrates the point that the man must always own his style, never letting the style own him. For, when style seizes control of the man we are left with nothing but an empty shell. At his latest PR stunt, Rodman came out of a coffin (which he will ultimately be burried in thanks to the good people at GoldenPalace.com) before signing copies of his book.


How the mighty have fallen.