"THE VERY FACT OF THE MATTER IS"

(to paraphrase Scott Van Pelt paraphrasing Stephen A. Smith).

As I write, time is running out on the thesis of this article. A couple weeks ago, Stephen A. Smith on NBA Nation said that Allen Iverson would win the MVP award this year. Not the all-star game MVP award, the LEAGUE MVP award. While Stein and Bucher scoffed, half-stunned, half-“here we go again,” I am not so certain that Stephen A. Smith is terribly off-base.

So far, the most talked about MVP candidate is Steve Nash, for obvious reasons with regard to his importance to his team. Lebron and Duncan have been mentioned, as well as Shaq, who Pat Riley has correctly stated is MVP every year, while the “selected” MVP is really the “sentimental MVP." (While I for the most part don’t really like Shaq, I will say that if there has ever been a conspiracy, it is that Shaquille O’Neal does not win the award EVERY SINGLE YEAR—like, why all of a sudden did it become not cool to give Shaq the MVP award?).

Now, back to Nash, while he might even get my vote, the sports media will not let this happen, and let me tell you why. The NBA MVP award is one of the few things left in sports that stands for something. I apologize for monopolizing freedarko webspace, yet I demand that we all take a second to look at the following list.

1955-56 - Bob Pettit, St. Louis
1956-57 - Bob Cousy, Boston
1957-58 - Bill Russell, Boston
1958-59 - Bob Pettit, St. Louis
1959-60 - Wilt Chamberlain, Philadelphia
1960-61 - Bill Russell, Boston
1961-62 - Bill Russell, Boston
1962-63 - Bill Russell, Boston
1963-64 - Oscar Robertson, Cincinnati
1964-65 - Bill Russell, Boston
1965-66 - Wilt Chamberlain, Philadelphia
1966-67 - Wilt Chamberlain, Phildadelphia
1967-68 - Wilt Chamberlain, Philadelphia
1968-69 - Wes Unseld, Baltimore
1969-70 - Willis Reed, New York
1970-71 - Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Milwaukee
1971-72 - Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Milwaukee
1972-73 - Dave Cowens, Boston
1973-74 - Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Milwaukee
1974-75 - Bob McAdoo, Buffalo
1975-76 - Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Los Angeles
1976-77 - Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Los Angeles
1977-78 - Bill Walton, Portland
1978-79 - Moses Malone, Houston
1979-80 - Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Los Angeles
1980-81 - Julius Erving, Philadelphia
1981-82 - Moses Malone, Houston
1982-83 - Moses Malone, Philadelphia
1983-84 - Larry Bird, Boston
1984-85 - Larry Bird, Boston
1985-86 - Larry Bird, Boston
1986-87 - Magic Johnson, Los Angeles Lakers
1987-88 - Michael Jordan, Chicago
1988-89 - Magic Johnson, Los Angeles Lakers
1989-90 - Magic Johnson, Los Angeles Lakers
1990-91 - Michael Jordan, Chicago
1991-92 - Michael Jordan, Chicago
1992-93 - Charles Barkley, Phoenix
1993-94 - Hakeem Olajuwon, Houston
1994-95 - David Robinson, San Antonio
1995-96 - Michael Jordan, Chicago
1996-97 - Karl Malone, Utah
1997-98 - Michael Jordan, Chicago
1998-99 - Karl Malone, Utah
1999-00 - Shaquille O'Neal, Los Angeles Lakers
2000-01 - Allen Iverson, Philadelphia
2001-02 - Tim Duncan, San Antonio
2002-03 - Tim Duncan, San Antonio
2003-04 – Kevin Garnett, Minnesota

Now, I ask you, do you see any Ken Caminitis, any Jose Cansecos, any Rich Gannons or Kurt Warners? No, you don’t. You see three words every season: Hall. Of. Fame. And what does this have to do with Steve Nash? Well, the fact that he is not a shoe-in hall-of-famer will prevent him from winning the award. The NBA simply won’t let this happen to their last symbol of all that is good and true. The question then emerges, who will win? And somewhat contradictory to my line of reasoning thus far, I believe the MVP race will follow quite similarly to the American League baseball race this past year. For those of you who might not remember popular discussion of last year's AL MVP, I will summarize it as follows: Manny or Sheffield. Sheffield or Manny. Papi? Santana? Mo Rivera? Sheff or Manny...VLAD!!!

In other words, it went to the guy who single-handedly catapulted his team into the playoffs over the season’s final weeks. Now, I ask you to walk with me through April. A broken down injury-plagued AI carries his team to 10 straight victories to end the season, clutching the 3rd seed in the Eastern Conference. An embattled Kevin Garnett spends the last two weeks putting up straight 30-20s, to will his way into that final spot. The sleepy-eyed McGrady stakes his claim in the new West, killin every Spur in sight and propelling the Rockets to win the Southwest Central division.

It’s wide open. Iverson, KG, T-Mac, and even Dirk or D-Wade have as good a chance as the frontrunners—IF they make it count down the stretch. It might not be fair to Steve Nash, but it’s the only way.

When worlds collide on the low/high side of things

I find it hard to believe that none of us have yet had anything to say about King Kaufman, who if anything seems more subject to criticism and more worth scrutinizing than Page 3 since he gets published somewhere reputable.

Most of the time, he's harmless and a little likeable. Finding him in Salon every day helps me feel better about myself; I may have completey slacked off in the politics and policy dept., but being a compulsive sports consumer still leaves a place for me in this most, um, present of journalistic sites. Kaufman is also willing to make a learned ass of himself, if nothing else to prove that, as Salon's sports columnist, he's caught between two worlds and having an indefensible blast (highly relevant non-Kaufman quote: "fuck the world, stick my dick in the dirt"). This is from his "the Oscars are like sports" piece from today (no link; my password's stolen, and I don't think I can watch the twenty-second vodka ad for you):

"The Motorcycle Diaries" was yet another sports biopic, this one about Jay Williams, the erstwhile Chicago Bulls player who's now recording "The Basement Tapes" with the Band.

At first I thought this was worse than anything Page 3's ever written, mostly because the sports/culture connection don't even attempt to be witty, or make more than passing sense. Unless you find the following witty:

"Phoenix's lack of depth is really going to hurt them in the playoffs, since people get tired. Not the way people get tired when watching Empire; more like the feeling you get if you'd been at one of Herc's block parties. Do these guys really want to come off of the floor? Can you stop the flow?"

(Bonus points for the ambiguous reference to Empire, which works as either the Warhol milestone or Joey Crack's finest moment yet on screen.)

Kaufman, or in this case, my caricature of him, proves that he can effectively riff on sports and culture alike, but to such a degree that they're left in separate worlds. The only way to bridge them is by tricking us into fitting them into the same thought, like a strange man with pointy ears and the legs of a creature. And I really think that this is Kaufman's m.o. about half of the time. He's smarter than most sports people, but still a sports guy writing for Salon. The gift and the curse. The self divided. Either he feels the sting of rejection on all sides, or turns it into an instrument of showy suspension.

Page 3 wouldn't namecheck Dylan's Woodstock period. They probably wouldn't even make a joke about The Motorcycle Diaries. It's absolutely unthinkable that they would grant us the sublime gift of Jay Williams=Robert Zimmerman, even if Kaufman did so only to try and pass off desperate resemblance as exchange. I would expect Page 3 to say something like "Chris Rock wins the Gary Payton Award" or "Beyonce's performances were the Dallas Mavericks of Oscar night." Everything neatly on its side, staring at each other, us staring down from above at both.

The lesson here: the more you know about anything, the less convincingly you can make a joke about anything but that. Try getting a dinosaur-hunter to use his accumulated knowledge to liven up a night of "NBA Nation." Impossible. Now make him an avid basketball fan—impossible, but unstoppable in the lank and shivers department. It would be worth all the prizes in the world, even if not a word of it succeeded in gut-level comedy. And that, my friends, is why I read King Kaufman: to see a man who hunts all monsters at once forced to live among the peaceful, making his way in fits and starts, with thoughts of upending us all.

Grown Man Bizness

The Interview of the year. In case you missed it. Right here.

It gets no REALER.

Extra props to www.whudat.com whoever you are.

"Goon"-Watch Day 5

Will the term, "goon" endure the same fate as the term, "haymaker?"

After Temple Coach, John Chaney's use of "goon" in reference to his capo-like tactics against St. Joseph's, we have seen this term take on a life of its own. Will it become ingrained the public conscience like "haymaker?" Will it seep its way into the NBA?

Check www.freedarko.com for continued updates.

If I was a rapper my name would be Leadbelly.

I know this is way too late, and I should be talking about the trades, and i'm probably the least pop culturally savvy person of my generation, (At this moment I'm listening to Loretta Lynn. I think Corky, the partially down syndrome guy is more with it than I am) but I couldn't help thinking that something of tremendous, perhaps even calamitous import happened during last week's All Star game.

The most horrible pop act I've ever seen, Big and Rich played. These guys vocal crimes were surpassed only by the idiocy of their own lyrics. They had a dancing dwarf, who I assume must have been crippled because he was leaning on two crutches. I describe it as dancing but I think something on the lines of convulsive death throws is more accurate. I'd never seen anything like this before and didn't think it could get any worse when out came a giant black man in a cowboy hat who proceeded to do something he called rapping, the only problem was this guy was 58% more honky than me. It was beyond mortifying. I started to get a headache and it felt like blood started to seep from my right earlobe, (it actually turned out to be a light vinaigrette.)

As I was recovering from this assault, trying to fathom what AI thought of the proceedings as he returned to the court, I turned to VH1 strange love starring Flava Flav and Bridgette Nielson. Though it has been hard to reconcile Flav's relationship with a goofy Austrian it never bothered me too much as Public Enemy's legacy as the most militant and unapologetically political rap band was firmly solidified. However I was aghast to see Bridgette actually on stage with Public Enemy, prancing around with only slightly more grace than the crippled dwarf. Chuck D was up there, so was professor Griff and the S1W's. Can you imagine!

It's only now that I'm able to reflect on these events. It will take a mind more savvy than mine to fully understand and explain the ramifications of these two simultaneous abortions. NBA, a hip hop game taken over by so called "country" cretins. And Public Enemy, the one band who's goal was not to sell out, not just to get the bling, having a scabby whitey on stage.

Say it ain't so, Chuck(both of them).

Peace in the valley

Not my usual torrent of thoughts tonight. . .I take back what I said about Dallas last month, this team is more ragged than during the Nash era but no less captivating. And that Sactown/Big D rivalry is the best in the league. Not sure if it counts as a rivalry, since both teams are still pretty bloodless, but they really bring out the best in each other. Good job, guys.

More importantly, from THC, here's confirmation that we're all in good hands.

The "Giggling" King

From an LA Times piece on the SAC Situation...

For some reason, this columnist's Sherlock Homesian mysterics in the second paragraph crack me up.

Webber followed his own lackluster performance with a stinging rebuke to unnamed teammates: "If you're always out of shape, I don't want to play with you. If you don't care when we lose and you're always giggling and laughing, I don't want to play with you. If you're giggling before the game, a Game 7 before we play the Lakers, and you're giggling and laughing and [stuff] is funny, I don't want to play with you."

Insiders knew the "out of shape" King to be Brad Miller and the "giggling" King to be Peja Stojakovic. Stojakovic responded by asking to be traded.

"Insiders" have also determined the mysterious "aching" King to be Bobby Jackson, the elusive "MVP-punching" King to be Anthony Peeler, and the dastardly "irrelevant" King to be Rodney Buford.

The Glove Ain't Got the Love

The hottest commodity for NBA teams making a playoff push down the stretch is no longer Karl Malone. It is not even Alonzo Mourning. And more generally, it is not a point-guard-who-can-distribute, a big-man-to-battle-with-Shaq/Yao/Z/Ben, and it is not a 3-point-shooting-beneficiary-of-double-teams. It is Gary Payton.

In a mere two years, Payton has been done dirty by THREE separate franchises—Seattle, Los Angeles, and Boston—franchises that span the continuum of ethical histories. And when it was all said and done, they left him with wounded pride, a non-refundable plane ticket to Atlanta that won’t be used any time soon, and a Bruno Sundov-sized chip on his shoulder.

But your boy doesn’t get knocked down so easily. He’s been knocked down before, and he doesn’t stay down for very long. What was that rumbling that Tony Parker heard under his bed last night? It was the sound of a thrice-bitten Gary Payton, and he’s coming to bite your fucking ear off, Tony.

Oh sure, I’ve heard that chatter. Gary’s out of gas. Gary’s D, physical state, his shot, his ability to get to the rim, and his attitude are ALL on the decline. But you can’t tell me that Gary doesn’t have 50 more championship-withdrawal-fueled games in him to catapult any good team into a great team and any great team into contender status.

If the NBA gods truly love basketball and love Gary, they will place him on the Suns, where he will defeat the Spurs in the Western Conference finals, after Nash goes down from pulling a hamstring. If the NBA gods have a sense of humor and love Gary, they will place him on the Timberwolves, where he, Sam Cassell, and Latrell Sprewell will turn Sunday afternoon games into R-Rated Pryor-esque gripe-fests; and then Gary will push the Wolves into the 8th seed, where they will defeat the Spurs as well. And if the NBA gods enjoy irony, they will place him back in Seattle, where he will single-handedly destroy the chemistry of the happiest team in the land.

All I know is, that championship trophy better rock-proof her windows for one more Spring.

No man's land

What I think my last post was about, besides forcing our readership to join hands and birth a new school of Talmudic interpretation, was the schizoid nature of the NBA season. You pick one to stake your fondness on, and then grin and bear the rest, catching a glimpse of your true love whenever possible.

That may be oversimplifying things, but I do know that November/December and the Draft are when I do my dirt. I realize that this places me in a weird minority--having it all that figured out, and liking the stretches of basketball that I do. With today's trade deadline madness still raking its hands through my brains, though, I am left to wonder who among us really feels at home during this brief, tumultuous patch of counter-reason. Walker back to Boston should at least be funny; Webber/Iverson is a meeting of the minds that could make a male Lifetime movie (Stephen A. Smith: "When Iverson goes out in Sacramento, he's with Chris Webber. And when C-Webb is in Philly, you better believe he's looking for Allen Iverson"). Still, I feel nothing. Where did these trades come from? What will they mean? What makes the Hornets brass decide, after several week of wisely declining to deal Baron until the off-season, that shipping him off for Dale Davis's contract is a sound deal?

(Dale Davis has now been traded for Jermaine O'Neal and Baron Davis. That has to be some kind of record of inequivalency.)

The trade deadline springs out of no past, and drops into no future. You throw a pancake against a moving train and ruin both. That's what it's like trying to imagine a big trade like this in mid-season, when each squad is working its way through the screwy mess that is an NBA team's season--a process with a momentum all its own. The best trades are the Jiri Welsch variety, or the way the Sheed-swap turned out: supplementary master strokes that fit into a work-in-progress. Its especially the wacky, .500- variety teams (all of which seem to be in the Atlantic Division) whose seasons take on a life of their own, quite apart from the smart-guy planning that thinks through team chemistry in the abstract. Davis to Golden State? The Warriors are suddenly going to work him into the interpersonal roil of a mediocre, team-in-transition waddle. You can't introduce a new character in the middle of a reality show, without assuming they'll always be an outsider. So it is with the trade deadline.

That said, if O'Brien is smart he'll ditch everything that's come before, including his own time-bound evolution as the coach of your Philadelphia Seventy-Sixers, and turn things over to Iverson and Webber. Put them on the floor with Korver hitting three's, Dalembert cleaning up and swatting shots, and Iggy (I am not at all in favor of that nickname, but can't figure out how it's really spelled) the lock-down defender. . . that's a team that could work its way well into the playoffs without a coach saying a thing, or ever having to practice except to get timing down. Greatest pick-up team ever.

I fully expect Walker and Pierce, once reunited, to promptly take it right back to 2002. I'd like to think that Doc will enjoy it as much as they will.

Petition Back Online

Well, as you all noticed - the petition was down for a few days. As is, if you signed before you're going to have to sign again. Sorry. But there are a few new improvements.

And an excuse. Seems like Petitiononline.com doesn't like anonymous names like "The Masters of the Klondike". What is anonymous about that? We are Masters... and we are of the Klondike.

I would even submit to your attention that common names like "John Holmes" or "Timothy Trocadero" have less meaning. Excluding Darko Milosevic of course.

Free Darko Petition

Oh, and the Masters of the Klondike would like to give a shout out to Brett Wallin and his Crew in Meeeshagan. Word Brett. We feel Darko, too. Pistons fans like you all need to grassroots the freedom movement.

As Darko said, "90% of life is just showing up."

A Glimpse into the Webber Psyche

Here. I find this grossly entertaining, curiously obsessive, and ultimately pretty damn mean.

I've always like C-Webb. During my brief flirtation with NBA.com Inside Ticket, I discovered that the post-game press conference is an art, and no one had it mastered quite like Webber.

The 76ers are fun to watch again. The Kings are mediocre again. All hail the Deadline Deal.

Loosen mein chains, so that they might bind me

"One verse says 'Seven days you shall eat matzah' and one verse says 'Six day you shall eat matzah.' How can both of these verses be maintained? The seventh day was included (in the first verse) but then excluded (from the second verse). That which is excluded from a more inclusive statement is meant to teach us about the whole statement. So, just as on the seventh day it is optional (r'shut), so on all of the other days, it is optional. Does this mean that it is optional on the first night also? The verse 'In the first month, on the fourteenth day in the evening, you shall eat matzah' (Exodus 12:18) fixes it as an obligation (hovah) to eat matzah on the first night."-Mekhilta, Pischa 8 (Lauterbach)

The Jews are a people well-informed by divine hassle. We are a nation of multitudinous laws, the very etchers of the web of neurosis that risks the modern man, and so smitten with inconvenience that sex itself feels a problem in need of resolution. It is only fitting that our loftiest days of worship call upon us not to scale the heights of religious experience or prostrate ourselves before the greater Good—instead, we revel in rituals of inconvenience, that most mealy of ecstasies!

We also built this league. The sport nursed itself to big city glory in the harsh environs of our YMCA-sponsored cage matches. We nearly brought the league to its knees through the Faustian heroics of Jack Molinas. The Knicks remain one of the NBA's marquee teams, only because of our spotless devotion. And in case you've forgotten, we've got our man Stern at the helm for life, a short, Frog and Toad lookalike who's more in-public and grudingly beloved than any commish in the history of professional sports.

Every spring, we celebrate the thoroughly irritating festival of Passover, where for twelve days we alter our daily lives without ever assuming the degree of purity, sacrifice, or suffering that Lent is supposed to bring. Bread, most bland of foodstuffs, ubiquitous, humble, and unnoticed. I am fine with two weeks of steak and international cheeses, but in my smaller moments of here-to-there, I am forced to negotiate a breadless existence. It is an endless technicality, one which hardly stirs the soul or causes the conscience to rumble. A pain in the ass you can't keep off your mind but couldn't possible transform into something interesting--the in-between state that defines a people both overwrought and relentlessly fussy.

We have our sport, its casing, the totally irrational boundaries that separate the charismatic first half from the post-season's dragon zoo. In between the two lies a no-man's land of fandom, a DMZ rushed into existence by the ever-widening gulf between Dime and old people that think LeBron looks like a woman. Remember ye, this is a league as Jewish at its heart as it is black on both sides; this lull, this crazing impasse that shatters the sport's unity, can only be properly viewed in the context of my people's Festival of Spring and Lamb Bones.

I have a problem. I giggle and marvel at this first fifty games of the season, buckle down and foreswear life's living meaning for the playoffs. But what of the last thirty games? I understand that this is when teams make run for April and beyond, and medicore .500 teams secretly hope for a shot at the #1 draft pick; it is also when a sense of urgency seeps into these contests, when rivalries bulge, and grouchy uncles of us all get past their superficial gripes and root for their team. But I, man who has staked several months of missing evenings on an appreciation of a hopelessly flawed patch of (the shadow of) competition, what becomes of me? Where goest I in this fever-dream of squiggly feeling?

Passover. I will say it once, and then say it again. The holiday falls at a different time each year, depending on the appreciable magic of the lunar calendar. Usually, it coincides with the playoffs. As a metaphor, however, it's time is now. I am destined to be burdened, conflicted by the way I've learned to watch thus far. Does this open any new doors of significance? Transform my relationship with the game? No, mostly it just ticks me off. Things don't matter that much. I want to see some flying and silliness; then it's gone. The world can act like it's in a race, and I will keep my pace. This will burn, burr, graze against my innards, but I will keep my tune until it is too late. And that, my friends, is the only right time to change it—if you recognize the beauty of the NBA as a Passover theme park for people like me, for the forgotten. I will enjoy my holiday, then join my more upright peers in the landless future of half-court resolve, where questions can and should be answered.

"The Vision of the Quadrupeds in the Desert: In affliction and distress, where are the lion and lion’s whelp, thence come also asps, and the young of flying asps, there shall they be who bore their wealth on asses and camels to a nation which shall not profit them."-Isaiah, 30:6-7

The Haymaker at Haymaker Hills

One of the most amazing things about the Brawl was the media's insistence on referring to Jermaine O'Neal's punch as a "haymaker," as if this rarely-used term were the only possible way to describe O'Neal's rep-bending act. In the immediate aftermath, it was understandable: need for colorful rhetoric, lack of imagination, group think, price of tulips rising, etc. Apparently, though, this has become the official nomenclature, as revealed by today's Florida Today. Three months after the fact and they have to say "haymaker." Did anyone ever use the word before that fateful day? How long till O'Neal is christened "The Big Haymaker?" Are we seeing the English language take form before our very eyes, like the way the OED was built around usage? Doesn't Stephen Jackson seem like that night's honorary maker-of-hay, not the panicky O'Neal?

I owe this and so much else to Inside Hoops, which every day saves me the trouble of reading local papers that take forever to load. They deliver the NBA news, so I can make fun of it.

The Trinity is now Complete

I don't normally gush about meeting pro-ball-players, but in the past 9 months, I have almost been magnetically drawn to them, completely coincidentally, and only in specifically non-basketball situations. Tonight, the "In 3s" theory was re-proven.

When I lived in Berkeley/Oakland for four months, I ran into JR Rider at 1am at a Shakes and Burgers joint, and we chatted it up for a while about how he felt that the NBA was blackballing him and how New Orleans almost gave him a shot at joining the team right before the playoffs last year. This was an incredibly bizarre experience, less bizarre that I sort of had a amicable relationship with JR when he was on the Wolves and more bizarre because it was JR FUCKING RIDER. At 1am. At a burgers/shakes joint. By the way, he was in peak fucking condition and was clearly trying to get back in the game.

Two months later, on my way back from California to MN, I had a layover in Phoenix. This was the same day that Steve Nash signed his whopping extension, and sure enough, as soon as I got off in the PHX airport, I saw Sir Nasty pacing about. I basically followed him around the airport for 20 minutes trying to think of what to say to him, until as he actually scampered to get on his flight (back to Dallas, nonetheless), I shouted, "Congratulations, Steve" and was thanked for my salute.

Tonight, I wandered into the shoes/apparel spot two blocks away from my rest in Hyde Park, and there stood Eddy Curry. Eight feet tall and two feet wide. Consuming about 64% of the 40-sq-ft store. I shuffled around him to check out some kicks, thereby creating the awkward circumstances by which if I wanted to leave, I had to re-get past him (an impossible task). As he joked with his people and the storeowners, I waited for the precise moment to inch by. Eventually, as he moved towards the wall to try on a powder blue polo, I made my move out the door. Regretfully I thought of nothing worthwhile to say to him, but my affinity for NBAsters, peculiar ones in particular, remained strong.

The New Verizon Wireless Guy

"Everybody knows I'm a weird guy"

I could watch Sager interview Shaq for at least two hours straight.

A Super[ior] Sunday

I have kept my fascination with NASCAR mostly on the down low. Yet on the occasion of both the Daytona 500 and the NBA All-Star Game, I will let you, dear reader, into the small, vaunted inner circle that know my secret.

I owe it all to Captain Jimmy. Cap'n is a sea-faring angler. For safety reasons - alcohol and the hot sun - my friend's family only sends their monstrous dingy out to sea under his careful supervisions. It is under this casual atmosphere that I have been able to open up about NASCAR.

Jimmy and I are Chevy men. Our days on the water are more than an opportunity to cop a tan and a free cruise. They are an outlet for my meandering thoughts on America's most popular sport - from the cacalacky of the Waltrips, the obnoxious drama of Jeff Gordon, Mike Martin's handsome good looks and the pop dominance of Dale Earnhardt, Jr - nothing is off topic, nothing is taboo. We wax about NASCAR as we chum the waters of life.

Evidently, as I watch the Daytona 500, it becomes clearer that what began with Captain Jimmy has been solidified by the new general acceptance of the most redneck of all sports. It clearly eclipses the NBA in reach, power and scope - and is dangerously close to embarassing both the NFL and MLB.

Yet, in the ties that bind all good things - there are strange and rare hues splashed along both the Icon of the NBA and the NASCAR built on kegs. That which keeps us huddled to the screen upon Josh Smith's uniform switcheroo is akin to the same rough and tumble post-coital glow that can only come after watching 200 laps of chaos on wheels.

NASCAR is country and the NBA is street. But neither are elitist. The same dysfunction that tantalizes us in the present day NBA is the backbone of the Sport of Drunks. We are appealed by the display of loud and brash human-ness that the NFL works painfully to eliminate. The same get out the bong type of rancor that is entirely absent in Tennis, Golf and Formula 1. Steroids may have made baseball shadier, but these are still men in stockings and caps.

Consider the tearful portrayal of the late Dale Earnhardt by Barry Pepper in ESPN's classic, '3'. Evidently, the NBA equivalent would be the hopeful Michael Jordan Story that never really took off. But to call Earnhardt the Jordan of NASCAR is a disservice to both his Airness and the Intimidator. One was street before he became corporate, and that surely wasn't Mr. Nike.

I simply suggest that the apparent Heirs to Jordan's throne likely find more pause and pleasure in the dirt lined tracks of Kannapolis than the suburban Carolina that built MJ and the soap box hoops of French Lick, Indiana.

Jordan's NBA is Schumacher's Formula 1. Saturated success. Iverson's NBA is Tony Stewart's Home Depot Car. Always at the risk of spontaneous combustion.

Agreed that this nods to the NBA of 5 years ago, but I haven't lost hope that the Association won't completely clean itself up. An NBA that will keep getting younger, hip-hopier and more gangsta regardless of the new generation of marquee is a close shadow of a NASCAR that relies chiefly on this sense of lawlessness.

Just picture Rafer Alston in a fire retardant suit. Just picture it and smile.

FBP Update

Dateline, TNT--Grant Hill touched our souls with the story of his multiple recoveries, as well as some gratuitous shots of him getting it done for Habitat for Humanity.

But that was nothing compared to Ray Allen, who referenced an earlier interview while talking with Cheryl Miller ("as I was saying earlier today"--the stuff a coherent campaign message is made of!) and then formally refuted accusations that a half-court shot in practice was rigged ("I don't even no how you would rig that"). Pay attention people, this is history in the making.

Update: Ray Ray and Hill just took the stage to make a plea, in tandem, for charity at home and abroad. They were trying to one-up each other, seeing who could show he cared without jeopardizing his statesman's poise. By the end, I was in such a tizzy that I can't remember which one actually got the honor of introducing the Goo Goo Dolls!

Juice

I was in the middle of a post on the persistence of Melo's street-level popularity, and how his embattled public image, on-court hiccups, music industry girl, and Bodymore hood connections straight out of The Wire makes him the all-too-real people's champ. Regardless of his style of play, or failure to dead his critics with overwhelming dominance (the Iverson model), Melo's flaws are their own rewards.

(Silverbird, I hereby officially incite you to post your essay on Mr. Anthony. Not one of the twenty you've written on Greg Anthony and the time you invited him to your Bar Mitzvah, but the politics-laden one on Melo. It could help us all connect the pieces)

Then I saw KG shed tears on national tv, and things will never be the same. For anyone who wasn't spending their Saturday afternoon burning scented candles and watching TNT's "NBA One-on-One," John Thompson gently turned the Big Ticket's psyche inside out, and we learned that--surprise, surprise--he wants to win so badly, it tears him up that he can't will the Wolves to victory. But this isn't one of those highly personal killer instinct, where losing gives way to determined frustration. Garnett really seemed like a man undone, at a loss—he's an All-Star whose game single-handedly creates a winning team around him, but so far this season he's only been able to redeem himself. For an all-for-one guy like KG, this is worse than putting it all on yourself and swearing to go further next time.

By the way, he must have said ten times "I hate that you're seeing me like this," and TNT's resident father-figure/therapist comforted him: "it's the pride" or "it's the realness."

Iverson may stay true to his personal code like no one else, but only Garnett is honest enough to let you see him doubt his. There is not an ounce of pretense in him.

(video to follow later)

-Vince Carter is a serial All-Star Game co-dependant. Used to be him and T-Mac on camera, talking family; now, it's brother-in-law Jamison. That is a man crying out to the world.

-I believe that this may be the first All-Star weekend where the incessant interviews, pre-taped, in-practice, whatever, are the real highlight. And there haven't been any Shaq/Kobe questions lobbed yet.

-ESPN, the print version, chose this week to announce that hip-hop has become a part of the Association. Because Nelly bought into the Bobcats.

Really though, should anyone care at this point? The league is made up predominantly of (increasingly) young African-Americans, often from underprivileged socio-economic backgrounds. What else would you expect? Diversity? Indecisiveness? No sport infilitrates urban spaces better than hoops, which thrives in parks, playgrounds, and cramped gyms; makes sense that music and culture would find their way into the game, almost as a matter of course. Would be far more interesting, and surprising, if MLB became totally salsa-fied.

-Speaking of which, TNT just informed me that Glen Campbell and Charlie Rich played at the ABA's first Dunk Contest. Now that's gangsta.

-Last serious thought: The Fab Five often gets credit for forcing organized basketball to confront the hip-hop monster on the horizon. But last time I checked, only Jalen Rose seemed to be a lifer; Iverson's all the more threatening (and possibly still ahead of his time) because he'll clearly never grow out of it.

It's the most wonderful weekend

I'm not as excited about All-Star Weekend as I've been in the past, mostly because I'm not surrounded by friends helping me pretend it's an occasion. That doesn't mean, though, that I'm above catching the fever when I get all dreamy inside, like when I heard this 1989 commemorative track posted on cocaine blunts today. You'll never guess who was responsible for this excessively (almost perversely) by-the-numbers salute to the players, coaches, and staff of that year's grand old time.

When they were kings

Really, I'm speechless.

Out with Bill Simmons, in with Charlie Pierce?

No one has made me laught out loud on the internet more than Bill Simmons, but I'm still not feeling good about him today--especially since my parody of his interns could easily have passed for Simmons himself on an off-day.

I would then like to direct our collective attention to Charlie Pierce's article on LeBron, as man, myth, myth-man, and man-myth, in SI this week. Pierce is the only person other than Larry King to have appeared on both PTI and NPR's formidable Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me , the two poles of my time-wasting existence. This piece (it is really a "piece," an essay that happens to have James talking meaningfully in the middle of it) has some sentences that could easily have sprung from FreeDarko's ripe, mangy forehead—it's smart, overwrought, and grotesque in a way that invites awe and ridicule alike (let's see Mr. Hollywood, he of the effortless rhetorical come-on, do that!!).

Speaking of LeBron, which is all I ever seem to do, how come no one accuses freak physical prodigies like Bron or Amare of being on steroids? Let me make this perfectly clear--I have no reason to think they are. But seeing King James and Canseco-gate in the same table of contents, it's hard to not wonder why no one's attempted to make this connection (believe me, if it had dawned on someone, it would be out there). Is this crushing silence the second coming of Jimmy the Greek--of course "those athletes" would be marvelous specimens? Are steroids the new white man's burden?

To recap: down on Bill Simmons, canonizing Charlie Pierce because he resembles me, calling it a racist world because no one says LeBron is a doper.

I am not above deleting this post if none of you like it. I think I am having a bad night.

Petition to FREE DARKO Now Online

Visitors,

We here at the Masters like to keep all underlings aware of our efforts to Free Darko Milicic.

Well, today marks a monumental step in an [unidentified] direction because of the implementation of our new Online Petition.

Please take a moment to read the petition, prepared lovingly by shoefly, and sign it if you see fit.

Our promise to you is simple. We will never stop, we will never err... until the beautiful majesty of Darko's loins are free for all of us to bear!

Viva la revolucion!

Pure, pure rot

Apparently, the way to Bill Simmons's heart is writing in the first-person, somehow involving a woman in your sports story, having throughly ungrounded and visceral feelings toward a random athlete, and dropping a few facile pop culture references. Read his intern finalists if you must, but know that we here at FreeDarko will kill every last one of them until we alone stand beside his throne.

Oh, and for good measure, "I was dating this girl who loved to watch public access tv, and I convinced her to let me watch the Grizzlies game by telling her that Brian Cardinal was based on a charater on 'Home Improvement.' But once she caught sight of Jason Williams, who's like Jin after a few dates with Ashlee Simpson, she said I'd have to walk to campus unless I stopped yelling unintelligibly about Mike Miller's rare good hair day."

KING ME!

Sail on, Page 3

ESPN's Page 3 has to be the most worthless, uncomfortable attempt at fusion journalism I've ever seen. Take, for example, today's Ray Ratto column, wherein this intreipid reporter, who clearly knows nothing about music, tries to match up NBA icons with recording artists that. . . I don't know, come from the same era and were similarly important? I'm all for the writers trying to expand their horizons, but there's a reason why I don't spend hours attempting to break down the nuances of hoops strategy--I'm not qualified for it, and to do see would ransack what little credibility I have.

They did, however, inform me yesterday that Tayshaun Prince and Serena had been an item, and offered the appropriately reserved defense of Chris Webber that I've never been able to put together myself.

I'm trying really hard to find something to say about the Dunk Contest. It should be mildly interesting to see Josh Smith, since at this point I'm convinced that the Hawks have him sitting on a soundstage, endlessly rehearsing highlight-worthy plays that are then shipped to SportsCenter and passed off as game footage (a la the Bush adminstrations "reports" on health care). And it is in the spirit of all most blessed reliefs that we've send the end of the Jason Richardson era (that first-round dunk last year was too little, too late). Still, Amare, LeBron, Anderson. . . these are contextual dunkers. Most of the thrill comes from seeing that imposing a player simply take off over someone in the heat of the game, as if, against all physical odds, they've made it into their own private dunk contest. Then there's Wade, who attacks the basket like a bulldog despite being built for the fancy stuff. In the real thing (which could go either way, but I mean the Dunk contest. . let's go with "the official thing"), explosive athleticism is expected, size is an impediment, and "originality," which goes hand-in-hand with cynicism, is the only thing that counts. It's the difference between a hocker player showing tremendous agility on the break (are there breaks in hockey?) and an ice skater doing the same thing.

LeBron said his dunking peace when he ruined Damon Jones earlier this month. This is the new, practical era of dunk showmanship--doing when it counts, where it counts. Maybe I'm reading too much into this, but it's all to east to see the slow decay of the dunk contest as a sign of this historical movement that this blog (okay, maybe mostly me) is so hung up on at the moment.

In the Spirit of the VanGundy-DwyMareBron Transition

We must make analogies to record and process this regime change with an eye on history.

Jason Richardson is the new Elton Brand
JR Smith is the new Fred Jones
Kirk Hinrich is the new Chauncey Billups

Please continue below.

The scraper did it!

According to Jerry Colangelo, it was the coaches that were choking the life out of this league. I am so confused! Is the problem trying to put multi-dimensional players into constrictive systems? Not giving them enough room to improvise, thus blowing up all semblance of order if they do? This makes it a clean sweep: I've now found ways to blame every player, coach, and front office stooge for making the NBA what it was before the new dawn of heros.

When they write the history of this fair sport, last year's Rockets will come to represent the absolute breaking point. They proved the limits of Van Gundy ball and the tragic flaw of the Francis/Mobley funhouse. And, ironically enough, it took them finding each other to undo each other once and for all!!

In more specific news, I am on a severe pro-Iverson kick lately. I've always liked him more as a personality, or an abstract principle, than as an actual spectator commodity; staying in Philly for four years meant I spent way too much time watching him labor to shoot over .400 for the night. But no one has more heart than Iverson, and the year he's putting together just reminds me why, even if he can't shoot to save his life, there's still no single player in the league clearly more valuable than Iverson. Okay, there is one I can think of, but I'm sick of typing his name.

That was a cliche-ridden wreck, albeit all true. How's this: Iverson is maddening when he's your lifeline to organized basketball, tremendous as mysterious side show, or a folk tale you only get to witness to fits and gasps.

So when I hear that Iverson's pissed about Chrid Ford showing up at games and scouting for the Sixers, I have to give him the benefit of the doubt and insist that he get his way. Ford was a crap coach who serves no purpose now other than getting under the skin of the one thing that keeps the Sixers relevant; at least O'Brien has some pedigree and once got Toine to play nice for a season.

Hasn't basketball learned anything from baseball? When you're stuck hiring dross to coach or otherwise manage the team, you might as well take a chance and hire someone young and inexperienced with a sparkle in his eye. The Lawrence Frank story is a marvelous thing--why won't the Sixer take a chance on me for GM? Could I be any worse than what Brown did when he had personel control? Could the horse I plan to purcahse in the near future fuck up the Knicks worse than Layden or Thomas? Could a series of random coin flips and Rorscharch tests? At least then they could land Donyell Marshall, who is the basketball equivalent of both these things.

At least the draft is hard to do. Unless you're talking about trading for unformed potential--which, given how much time and energy and hope people invest in the NBA Draft (not just me), should never happen, since the whole reason you draft these kids is to try and upgrade, which by definition you should at least try—player dealing in the nba is so much more straightforward than in baseball, where production flucuates wildly, or football, where there are so many variables i could die just thinking about them.

Seriously, give this blog the reigns of a team in the week before the trading deadline and we will make it happen. That's a standing offer.

Valentine Post-Mortem - Zo Returns

Mourning was once the team's unquestioned leader. Now, his role on court and off will be much different. O'Neal is the locker-room voice, Dwyane Wade is the budding superstar and Mourning most likely will be asked to provide only key minutes off the bench.

"We've had a long conversation about this," Riley said. "He wants to fit in. He understands this is not what it was three years ago, four years ago. ... I don't think it's going to be any problem."

It's easy to admit that this team is better. Not only does this year's Heat have a much greater potential to win the championship, but the squad as a whole is a lot more entertaining and exciting. Personality top to bottom. God hopes they don't cut loose the Wang of Zhi Zhi.

Who would you rather have as the two stars? Zo and Timmy... or Shaq and Dwyane. Yes, an incredibly easy choice, but for old diehards like myself it is difficult to let go of the past. In doing so, you let go of a great deal of the angst that drove me during my teenage years. Yes, the Miami Heat were as much a part of my bitter pubescent years as acne and body hair.

When Allan Houston's game-winning jumper rattled into the hoop, I jumped into a pool fully clothed and punched the water until exhaustion. I then nestled under a tree. Crying and hoping - above all hoping that Mother Earth would heal me. I felt like I had lost a member of the family. The wounds still remain. A friend actually got up and ran home never saying a word - 7 miles later. Deep scars.

After all, I'm one of those delusional fans who spent the better part of five years trying to convince friends, acquaintances and newspaper columnists that the Miami Heat was underrated. I championed the Heat cause across foreign lands and cyberspace. In fact, I once bought Russian Dolls in Moscow of the 2000 squad - Zo, Timmy, J-Mash, "Thunder" Dan Majerle, Anthony Mason & Brian Grant - just to confirm the team's status abroad. I still treasure those dolls to this day.

Yet, the team continually floundered and excuses were made. Reminiscent of today's Wolves. At first, only MJ's Bulls were ruining our run, then the playoff heartbreakers with the Knicks and finally - the coup de gras - Zo's kidney.

I was well versed in the excuses, but they were shielding the real reason behind the constant dissapointment. This team never felt right. It was more Knicks under Riley than his Lakers. Strong defensively and admiringly bull-headed, but completely devoid of any real offensive spark. As a fan, you love Mourning but wonder why he punched Larry Johnson. You admire his defensive presence but lament his inconsistent offense.

It was a team built for drama - not for winning. Why did apparently two of the NBA's fine statesmen - P.J. Brown & Charlie Ward - get into a fracas under the basket?? Why did the big shots come down to Jamal Mashburn & Clarence Weatherspoon - a miserable recipe of chokers - instead of Timmy, the only player capable of serving up the real daggers? Riley never assembled right mix. Blew it up too, no luck.

Sadly, there was never a big winner among the first decade of Riley in Miami. There was talk of a curse. It seemed Coach's career would coast off into oblivion like so many other successful winners on their third mission.

Then completely out of nowhere - when you thought he was defeated, beaten & humbled - Riley got lucky. Drafting Dwyane Wade lucky. Granted, Riles had made some inspring picks in 2002 with Caron and Rasual Butler. In retrospect, this may seem like the draft that turned them around - but they were only nice players drafted immediately after and before some bigger studs. As an aside, the 2000 NBA Draft was a sour one overall with only Amare, Boozer and Yao becoming impact players. Think of the rest - Jay Williams, Tsiktz, Haislip, Borchardt, etc. A who's who of mistake picks.

Fast forward a year. Caron was to be the point-forward, an above-average talent that slipped to 10, but who showed himself not to be the savior. The savior would come in another form as Dwyane Wade fell in Miami's lap at number five. Even so, was this brilliance or luck? Clearly, doing the draft over again not knowing what you know now, all four players taken ahead of Wade would have been taken ahead of him again.

The Heat now had the talent assembled after two relatively fortunate drafts. Odom was the third piece. But, as luck would have it, being able to sign Odom would only come after Anthony Carter failed to kick in his player option. The rest is history. Three arms are flipped for Shaq and the team becomes an instant contender.

Today Zo has returned after basically burning the bridge he took out of Miami. Time and his charity has hailed those wounds. Yet, we worry. The same Zo who for all his brilliance seemed a little too complicated. Like Kellen Winslow Jr. or a younger Barry Bonds. Yeah he's older. Calmer. But why risk the team chemistry?

Because its the ultimate storyline. Redemption for everyone. A lifted curse. Not at the level of the Red Sox, but a bounce back no one envisioned. The Miami Heat over the past 10 years become an odyssey with success at the end, instead of an anonymous trip. Zo adds drama to the storyline and enough size inside that together, Shaq and Him push around Duncan and Nesterovic.

It is such absurdly poetic justice that the league should be on notice. These stories aren't a coincidence. There are signs of a greater hand at work.

Will the saga of the past decade bear the fruit of the 2005 NBA Championship? I say aye, but nod that fate will determine whether I'm still a homer or not.

Early Nominee for Sign of the Year

Spotted at Tonight's Bulls/Kings game:

"RIDE THE PONY like NOCIONI"

???........!...?

*Game over*

(insert throat slash here)

If this blog has one overriding theme, it's that we're all so excited about this new NBA, we want to puke. I've said it once and I'll say it again—this new crop of stars, and the new vogue for high-test, fast-paced teams, have reinvigorated a sport that had become one big inside joke. This is the changing of the guard, and someone has to be left in the dust.

We are in the process of saying goodbye to the worst kind of dark ages: one that flew too close to the sun and was found out. I will never forget the wonderful times I enjoyed watching the likes of T-Mac, Vince, Marbury, Stevie Franchise, and other versatile, dynamic, frequently unstoppable guards. But sad as it is to have to say so, their day has past. They are dinosaurs, and today is the time of the aqua-rat. They are the great teases of the sport: capable of nearly anything, content to do just enough to keep themselves at center stage, never quite regal enough to attain the Jordan-esque heights to which they had aspired. Too profligate to be a piece in the puzzle, too flawed and maddening to build the whole world around, it was their recent plunge into oblivion that truly ushered in the future we call wealth.

I would like to take this opportunity to single out three men who have the chance to move past this time-bound stigma. The Answer, a man whose greatness is so overwhelming, so persistent, that through sheer will, he has justified playing like the sun on fire. AI alone has strapped a subpar team on his back and dragged it, kicking and screaming, to the Finals. Vince came close that same year, but has flagged ever since; had T-Mac single-handedly offed the Pistons the year he should have, we might be chanting his name like a call to cancer. As fate would have it, only Iverson avenged the senseless. Ray Allen, he of the deft shooting stroke, impeccable manners, and bright, bright future, is a classic 2-guard with some extra special something. Observe his fair Supersonics, to see how easily the NBA's most effective class act thrives when his team finds its identity.

That would leave this blog's very own haunted house, the great and tormented Kobe Bryant. The closest we've yet seen to a carbon copy of MJ, he's in some ways the most explicitly post-Jordan of this soon-to-be extinct post-Jordan school ("they will be unto the world like a thousand Jalen Roses"); in this, however, dude's also the only one who has managed to recapture what it meant to play this way with a cold-blooded purpose. As I think I've said already this month, over the next couple of season Kobe will determine if he dies a clown or strides into the future as the sole, and most worthy, bearer of the Jordan legacy, the only one who could take it into the smarter, prouder, refined years ahead without falling victim to its temptations or self-imposed ruinage. Jordan nearly destroyed a generation, while at the same time giving life to another, which had his shining example and their exaggerated, cautionary brilliance to guide them; Kobe is a triptych of destiny, even if his dynasty (like the Nets, who, believe it or not, made the Finals twice in the late nineties) now feels like a summer when work sucked.

The guards are dead; long live the guards. Wade, LeBron, and Arenas (that's right, I said it) have every bit the post-Jordan flair for the dramatic, and willingness to crush the game between their thumb and forefinger. They also make good decisions, take care of the ball, and know when to not take ten shots in a row. Jordan was unstoppable, and did everything, holding the ball a lot, as a byproduct of this deadly menace. His heirs, well, they believed you got unstoppable through stats, moves and imposing your will on the game—not that these were things you earned through the simple, thundrous quality of invincibility. AI proved it was still possible, but nearly killed himself in the process; Kobe goes through the motions, and has seen some of the same outcomes, only to get ahead of himself and lose the high-pitched hum that clears its own path.

These new kids, they see that. They play on teams. They watch Lake Placid in their spare time. They turn it on when they know it's there, not when they feel like it or when they're lucky enough to be able to get it going.

It will take time. There will be teams left in the lurch. Careers struck down before their time. Boys leading men, and vision cast aside like blankets at dawn. The torch has been turned over, not passed, and five years of smoke is but air doodles between the flame!!!!

Why not?

Evening Edit: This is the sound of a man searching. I still think GM's are incompetent, and there is absolutely no excuse for not being able to imaginatively surround a giant like Iverson or Garnett with a complementary team. But, as the day wore on, and I engaged in a highly efficiently email correspodence with Brother Todd about players that fail to rule but are too unwieldy to follow, I knew what I had to do. I have washed my hands of the heros of my young adulthood, and arrived, full stop, at the plaza of opinion that lends its gracious shade to this very paragraph.

Last summer, Shaq, T-Mac, Stevie Franchise. Already, Air Canada. Now the papers are telling us that Iverson wants out of Philly, and the possibility of the Wolves moving KG is not out of the question. Am I missing somethin here? As axiomatic as "we play to win the game": you own a team to stock it with talent. It's a players' league; otherwise, coaches wouldn't expendable, and we would've seen the NBA's version of the Patriots (don't even try and sell me the Pistons: that team has no fewer than four guys who could make the All-Star team, and Brown's a game coach, not a system guy. The Spurs, maybe. . but isn't that really just orchestrating the obvious around Duncan?). This "change of scenery" principle is crap--if you've got a stud on your team, you make the scenery fit him. Granted, no one (except LeBron, possibly Duncan and KG) is perfect; Shaq's lazy and can't shoot free throws, McGrady needs the ball constantly and coasts while doing so, Francis can't really play point, Vince isn't always playing up to his potential. Is this a rationalization for getting rid of them? This isn't a "trade Brand to get potential superstar" gamble; it's pawning off first-team all-NBA weaponry to the most reasonable bidder. The T-Mac/Franchise trade only happened because both of their reputations had been clouded--otherwise, you can bet they both would've been traded for unfulfilled upside, a vet or two, and a few extra inches in the post.

The Grizzlies might be the exception here. They win with a frighteningly deep rotation and tremendous game-by-game flexibility. But would they trade Gasol to get deeper? Could they stand to have him dominate?

The problem isn't the stars. It's half-wit GM's, who surround All-Stars with trash and cast-offs. Iverson can't play with another scorer. . . have they ever found an effective one for him (Matt Harpring buckets count only in Utah)? Marbury is terminally selfish. . . is there anyone on that team worth giving the ball to?

Draft intelligently. Don't sign slop to long-term deals. That's how GM's can convince the McGrady's and Vince's of the league to give a fuck. Arrogance loves company.

What Made You Get the Same Shoe as Mine?

JEALOUSY...

Stein started using my slang.

"If you had to pick this season's King O' All-Star Snubs, you'd have to pick Chris Webber. Right?"

You know he reads FreeDarko.

Ray Allen - Senator Obama with a Smooth J

[this post was inspired by Bethlehem Shoals, may he R.I.P.]

From the South Florida Sun-Sentinel:

NO RAY OF HOPE

Guard Damon Jones confirmed he was snubbed from the 3-point contest during All-Star Weekend because Sonics guard Ray Allen asked to participate.

Jones found out from NBA Vice President Stu Jackson he was on the six-man list until Allen made his overture.

Asked if Allen's actions upset him, Jones said, "If he has the power to do that, so be it."

Damon Jones was told he would be the replacement choice should one of the contestants be unable to participate Saturday night in Denver.

Ray Allen's star is one that the NBA has never allowed itself to iconize. His quiet, distinct grace has long been overshadowed by the chaotic rapture of the Answer, Kobe, Shaq, T-Mac and the Franchise.

Although he is quite possibly one of the most elegant shooters in the history of basketball, Ray Allen has never been able to bend the public will to his aim as others can.

Recall that he was once the sweetest face in the nation after his starring role in "He Got Game", but Denzel's vitriolic salesmanship and Spike Lee's puppetry made the movie more about them than about the actual athlete who showed he could both act and dunk - not vice versa.

He is a recipient of both the Joe Dumars Sportsmanship Award and is a two time member of the All-Interview First Team. Clearly, Jack Kemp in big shorts.

Ray (whose Fine Art collection is neck and neck with Chris Webber for finest in the Association) recognizes that he must seize his own future now. He must scold Kobe, fabricate rivalries and inject himself in every Basketball lover's living room. Time has shown that as we get older we gravitate to insanity, not to the All-American Boy that made us all jealous in High School.

No, the stack is against Ray Ray and he now recognizes that he must put himself on par with the thugs who control the NBA group mind.

Why? Because he is a man who knows fate lies farther for him than on the basketball court. It lies in the cherry-lined offices of privelege, pedigree and power. The Hill. The West Wing. Maybe even the Oval Office.

A star is emerging. By pushing out the underlings like Damon Jones, Ray Allen is showing both the tooth and nail needed to make him a fixture on the American landscape for decades. A fitting First Fan for all of us.

It Was His Time

Flip Saunders. Ava L’Sholom.

No, it wasn’t your fault Flip. You did everything you could. You coddled, you placed blame, you took the team bowling. But after 10 years, one first round playoff series victory, and one downwardly spiraling season, it is time to say farewell.

You are Dennis Green. You are also Ron Gardenhire. You are a Minnesota coach. The paradigmatic Minnesota coach. You give your stars free reign, but you also nurture young teams in to bands of men. You eek out wins, but you do not step on opponents throats. You give us just enough to be content, but you never win the big one. And finally, the man who won three rings by stepping on peoples throats, and the billionaire who earned billions by stepping on people’s throats said “no more.”

The casual Timberwolves fan asks, “Was it right?” “How could Kevin McHale fire AND replace one of his oldest friends?” This is not a situation involving morality. There are no ‘rights’ and ‘wrongs.’ There are no friends and there are no enemies. There are only simple Darwinian mechanisms at work.

Others will ask, “Why didn’t they fire Sprewell instead?” Well, while Sprewell is soon to be shipped off anyway, it is surprisingly an attitude like Sprewell’s that the Wolves need more right now than that of Flip.

Oh casual Timberwolves fan, I will entertain your unknowing question: Was it right? No. But it was his time.

Fuzzy Logic

(Stuffy preamble)

Fans of non-contending teams, the group of which I have recently become a member, can enjoy the NBA season only by applying any number of folk suppositions that will somehow catapult their team into contention, or at very least will provide optimism for a future chance at contention. Many of these suppositions are time-tested and hold true—the “hire Phil Jackson” supposition, the “we’ll have a lot of cap room to spend on free agency” supposition, the “we’ll get a great lottery pick” supposition, the “maybe it’s time to trade Marbury” supposition—while others are mere illusions; illusions we create to engage ourselves in cliché rallying cries like ‘everything’s gonna be alright,’ ‘just wait till next year,’ and ‘we’re rebuilding!’ I turn now to examine four erroneous suppositions constructed from strong historical evidence. I argue that the historical evidence supporting these suppositions is anomolous and that hence any endorsement of them is erroneous.

1. The Jermaine O’Neal supposition (see Ndudi Ebi, Darko, Robert Swift, Kwame Brown)

What a better place to start than with our man Darko. A few months ago, when asked to describe the progress of the modern day Sam Bowie, Joe Dumars stated that Darko is on the exact pace they thought he would be and that he should have a similar progression to Jermaine O’Neal. What better way to justify your prematurely-birthed teenage 12th man then by pointing to the trajectory of Jermaine O’Neal (and to a lesser extent Kobe & KG). This example allows one to say, just like O’neal, in four years, once our guy goes from playing 12 minutes a game to 37, he will blossom into the third best player at his position. While Dickaus and Korvers (guys putting up numbers as a result of more PT) are popping up all over the league, I do not see another player following J.O.’s strange path.

2. The Sabonis supposition (see Andris Biedrins, Martynas Andriuskevicius) (also known as the Muresan supposition)

He wasn’t my Vydas, he wasn’t your Vydas, he was Our Vydas. One of the best and most versatile centers we saw during that liminal Dream-torch-passing-to-Shaq era, Arvydas Sabonis revolutionized the center position. “If he had only entered the league when he was younger,” we all cried. And in China, an 18-year-old Yao Ming used “Sabonis” as a screenname when talking hoops on internet message boards. Since Sabas’ time, many have been billed as “what Arvydas would have been at a younger age,” and none have fulfilled the prophecy. There’s lots of talk about his protégé, Andriuskevicius, but I just don’t see this one working out.

3. The “Shaq will screw us” supposition (see T-Mac, ‘Sheed)

Perhaps Shaq was not the one who originally defined this scenario, but since devastation of the Orlando Magic, teams have become increasingly paranoid towards franchise guys with a year or less on their contracts, trading them for whatever scraps they can gather. This does not make a team better, and teams are better off simply attempting to re-sign a max player for a max amount or (if he’s not a max player) letting him go. Despite the situation in Orlando looking brighter due to the trading of T-Mac for Stevie, I will attribute the Magic’s success more to their drafting of Dwight Howard, the addition of Turkoglu, and the return of Grant Hill.

4. The “One player away” supposition (in progress)

This one is based on the arrival of ‘Sheed in Detroit last February. Since then, I’ve been hearing whispers that every +500 non-contending team is just “one player away” from having a legit title shot. I strongly expect a team that is not the Spurs, Suns, Heat, or Sonics to make a boneheaded trade near the deadline, giving birth to this supposition.

Sundays with Hubie

I am grievously interested in finding out just how Valentine ends, so don't expect too much concentration on this one. Plus I think that the utter lack of commentary on the Saunders dismissal—to me, the story of the year so far—casts a shroud of silence over this here blog, and I don't quite feel good about writing until someone steps up and says something.

I did want to share with all of you the intense fondness I've developed for Hubie Brown over the last few weeks. It's not his way with language—the Big Redhead remains the once and future king—and his insight really isn't much to anyone past junior high level of hoops know-how. But few people can coat the game in as much amber enthusiasm as the one-time Papa Griz (the Logo runs the forest!). who at the buoyant age of seventy-something still dances his way through a broadcast with non-stop like's, love's, and other general indicators of thumbs-uppery. He may practically own the patent for the by-now meaingless term "upside," and he is occasionally prone to weirdness like today's "LeBron's ranks fourth in the league in creativity" (did I hear that right?). Still, I'll take his absent-minded glee any day over Walton's snide buffonery, and blurting out nonsense in the heat of pure basketball affirmation is diffferent than Walton's desire to turn the whole game into his rhetorical petting zoo.

I don't want Hubie calling the playoffs, but for meaningless games that serve mostly as a soundtrack for my attempts at Sunday homework, he's the perfect, glowing ambient ingredient. He rarely wows me with his competence, but he pays attention and tries to make sure you're as rapt as he is. Whether or not you think he pulls it off is a personal thing, but for me, the effort comes across, and makes the Hubie Brown Experience an altogether rewarding one.

Other thoughts:

1. LeBron played like nothing the first half today. The second half, he never took over the game (putting Kobe, who happened to have a pretty good day in the unselfishness dept., to shame), and had only a handful of King-caliber PLAYS. Still, he nearly got a triple-double. Absolutely unbelievable. Is he better than we could possibly imagine, or is he so beyond stats that he can pile them up in his sleep? BTW, I had this thought before Hubie semi-articulated it, so I'm taking what's mine!

2. Re: a post from last night: the new look Kings are, dare I say, interesting. I agree 100% with THC. Mobley is making things happen. Real thangz. He's proving himself to be a real leader of men, exactly what that team needs. And he's trained Maurice Evans and Matt Barnes in his image—that's the emotional core of this team. It was always B-Jax and the rarely seen raw Bibby before that; now these guys outnumber the impassive professionals that have kept the team spinning its wheels for so long.

3. Is there a more enigmatic—and utterly fascinating—player in the league than Lamar Odom? If LeBron is strength, grace, length, and balance in perfect harmony, Odom is all four fighting a nail-and-tooth battle to the death. He can be three or four different guys at once, sometimes over the course of a single drive.

Sleeping Giants

Why are the Sacramento Kings--formerly the most heartless, choking-prone, hateable team
in the league; the losers of four straight--straight up scary in the playoffs?

Revenge.

The ghost of Bob Horry's 3-pointer. Rick Fox's kitten claws all over Doug Christie.
Sam Cassell's 4th quarter flurry. Shaq's rendition of the 'Cheers' theme song:

Winning a championship takes everything you got
Sacramento, they thought it was their year
But I'm telling you it's not.
Vlade said if we don't have home-court advantage we won't win
Vlade, are you stupid? I tell you time again
You need to go where they don't know your name
And the Lakers, we don't play the game
You said that we wouldn't win at your place
Guess what Kobe dunked it in your face
You need to go where people don't know your name

Oh, sure, it's been building. Mounting. Chris Webber almost named names last year after
the second-round loss to the T-Wolves. But this week, the back broke. The wheels fell off.
Rick Adelman's moustache quivered. Four potentially deserving all-stars in Bibby, Webber,
Miller, and Peja, were shut out. The Kings lost two games AT HOME on uncalled goaltends.
Smoochie Fortson tussled with C-Webb. No respect. That's what the Kings have earned (deser-
vedly so) up to this point. But this isn't the Kings you used to know. C-Webb has reestablished
leadership. Cuttino Mobley is talking. Greg Ostertag is just ready to spend a hard 6.5 fouls per
playoff game hassling the shit out of Duncan/Amare/Shaq. And Maurice Evans is dunking on people.

The new DwaMarBron NBA favors the Kings style of play, and it's a style they've been used to for years. Whereas before, they didn't have that swagger nor did they own any extra incentive beyong winning a shit-load of home games for their crappy California-meets-Orlando hometown of Sacramento, that chip-on-the-shoulder they always could have used is finally there.

Revenge tour, baby. Kings-style. I don't want to believe it, but I just might have to.

We now have a domain - http://www.freedarko.com

Use it.

Welcome back, angry Vince

Am I the only person who has noticed the return of the legendary angry Vince Carter? The one that stormed through the Olympics with a slight fro, dunked over Frederic Weis, and made one of the all-time cocky hand gestures after arguably the greatest slam dunk contest showing EVER?

It may just be coincidence, but in the midst of what has been his best basketball since the Eastern Conference Finals of 2001 (where, by the way, he screamed once or twice in the throes of bucket-dropping ecstasy), we've got two of the most most definitive angry Vince sightings ever: going after the reprehensible Bruce Bowen with neck veins flaring, and supposedly body slamming Sam Mitchell (easily one of the weirdest head coaching reigns in recent memory). Now all he needs to do is win the All-Star game MVP and tell the media, who perenially question his right to be there, to fuck off. Then back to the smooth jazz.

Sidenote: Once, I claimed that I hated Wally so much that I would praise even Bruce Bowen for kicking him in the face (not a hypothetical). Now, I think I might be going the other way. Those are two of the most dislikable players in the NBA, for entirely different reasons. A few years ago I would have picked Bowen, as objectionable but fairly low-key and harmless. I was wrong--he's a rat. Wally's a gross pet that deserves to be thrown out in the forest, but that's better than vermin.

Upper Deck Conspiracy Theories

I bought a pack of basketball cards last night.

It contained the cards for:

Wang Zhizhi
Antoine Walker
Mike Dunleavy
Earl Boykins
Mike Bibby
Damon Stoudamire
Larry Hughes
Tracy McGrady (Flight Team Hologram in a Magic Jersey and Rockets Logo)
Kirk Snyder Rookie Scrapbook

As I flipped through the cards one by one, my girlish giggles continued to elevate. I don't ever recall laughing so hard when buying a pack of cards before. Perhaps its because I hadn't bought one in a while, or because I was drunk.

The crazy in me thinks that perhaps the Basketball Trading Card market has dried up, and Upper Deck has to "stack the deck" so to speak with the Freak Shows of the NBA. C'mon we're talking about getting Wang Zhizhi, Earl Boykins and Dunleavy in a pack of cards!

What are the odds. Where are the Pervis Ellison and Chris Gatling stacked packs that left all of us wanting so much more?

I rather think however, it has something to do with the world's greatest league with a cast of characters so dense, even the lame ones are interesting.

At work I won't put up pictures of my family, but I now have my Wang card in my picture frame.

Thank you, NBA. Thank you, Upper Deck.

Next on the Shuffle

I'll never forget when Ghostface namechecked Bonzi Wells.

I thought he was a secret.

Saturday Mornings Made of Beer Pong Hangovers & Nas Dissing Kobe

h, Massa used to breed us to be bigger to go play
Athletes of today in the NBA, make me proud
But there's somethin' they don't say
Keep gettin' accused for abusin' White pussay
From OJ to Kobe, uh let's call him Tobe
First he played his life cool just like Michael
Now he rock ice too just like I do
Yo, you can't do better than that?
The hotel clerk who adjusts the bathroom mat?
Now you lose sponsorships that you thought had your back
Yeah, you beat the rap jiggaboo, fake nigga you
You turn around then you shit on Shaq
Who woulda knew, Mr. Goodie-Two-Shoes
He love a little butt crack, got enough cash
Little kids with they bus pass who look up to you
To do something for the youth, stupid spoof
But you let them use you as an example
They would rep, but our heroes got they hands full

Take that Ray Ray!

Ray Allen is not only a viable MVP candidate in a contract year; he's also, unbeknownst to him, embroiled in my two favorite long-term NBA rivalries. Besides the FBP stakes hinted at last weekend (act like you know!), there's his battle with C-Webb for "most respectable art collection belonging to a basketball player." I'm inclined to give Allen the benefit of the doubt, except for the fact that he takes paintings from strangers who show up at his hotel and likes to use them as metaphors for teamwork. Webber may play it safe—the Webber collection, on display in Sac-town for BHM, is mostly historical artifacts. But if you dig around the Crocker site a little more, you'll find that Webber also plans to purchase a new work--chosen by museum patrons--to donate to the permanent collection. And that, my friends, is light years beyond accepting eager fans' burn offerings.

Ambassador of curatorial madness

If this was too earnest or high-toned, l need only remind you of my fascination with the National Stuttering Association. . .

Some called it Bron vs. Melo part deux. . .

but, no matter what happens in the second half of this one, I will forever remember it as the night that Walton

1) praised Kenyon Martin for holding a seat on the National Board of Stuttering, with which he's quite active
2) called Silas "the greatest bowler in the history of the NBA"

And there was also Kobe and Ron Harper, watching the game from sort of inside a luxury box. At one point, Kobe took a call and looked really concerned. Who calls him, anyway?

And Speaking of Sellouts...

This sort of encapsulates the Wolves season.

Like J-Zone said, "The game got soft like a chipwich in the Sahara."

F*CK TILT

Remember when MTV stopped playing music?
ESPN is on some bullshucks. Michael Madsen
fell off on some Eddie Murphy/Pluto Nash shit.

Show me college hockey...javelin...something...

Together at last

You'll never guess which NBA pros are on Ashlee Simpson's list of "famous friends."

United in gladness

I really don't know what else to say about this. Do they even know each other? What is their "friendship" like? Is it the randomness factor that gets me or is this as odd as I think?

Three times a lady

It was brought to my attention earlier today that all of the Suns' starting five got invited to All-Star Weekend. Amare, Nash, and Marion made the team; Q and Joe Johnson (just as I can't keep myself from saying "Stevie Francis," it took all of my concentration to not type "Joey Johnson" there. Is that a complement or condascending?) in the vaunted 3-point Shoot-Out. My first two thoughts on this: there is no way D'Antoni shouldn't be coaching the West. It's the All-Star Game--do you really want to see Popovich running the show? How do we know he's not going to resort to playing the size advantage, since the East's explosiveness has been known to steal a game late (Arenas, 20 points third; Iverson closes it out with 18 in the last five!)? Let's take it a step further--why not just send the Suns as the Western All-Star starters, coach and all? Put T-Mac or Kobe in as the starting 2, bring Richardson or Johnson off the bench. . . is there any reson to believe that wouldn't be as well-orchestrated and dynamic All-Star squad as there's ever been? They've got chemistry to go with all the requsite fireworks--Nash is the league's best passer, Amare its most furious dunker, Marion a high-flying freak show, Q and JJ the kind of fearless long-range gunners that could save us a cold spell or two. . . it's just a suggestion, but I'm clearly in favor of it.

So far in this blog, I have advocated restructuring the playoffs so the Suns could win a title, and offered them up as your 2004-2005 Western Conference All-Stars. To save the suspense, this summer I plan to propose that the draft consist simply of lottery teams telling an MSG audience which Suns starter they would most like to have. And then hand them responsibility for the Super Bowl halftime show.

The real motivation here, though, is that it's an insult to be in Denver for the three-point shoot out. Johnson and Richardson are not 3-point shootout material; it's not their event, it's beneath them, and far more one-dimensional, stiff players should get their chance. It's like when Paul Pierce tried his hand at it a few years back--the contest rewards pure shooters and spot-up guys, not runaway trains like the Suns's twosome. Has any watched Richardson shoot three's? Does anyone think that Johnson can hit a three if he's not allowed to lope into it?

The Dunk Contest, as far as it's fallen, is still respectable. Even the rookie game counts for something, since that thing gets pretty fucking street whether it's hotly contested or a blow out. But the Suns shouldn't all be going to the All-Star game, since it makes a mockery of all they've accomplished.

There Ain't Just Juan Stoudamire

Or Stoudemire.

As in Amare, presentation made possible by Damon.

--------------------------

Damon Stodamire's resurgence this year has been wholly unexpected and completely enchanting. After a few years of decent production in the nest of anxiety that is the Portland Trail Blazers, Damon seemed to be nearing the end. Meaning - that the strange air of the sea mountains, the grungy girl you just can't shake - the lingering and festering hatchet wound that are the Trail Blazers would make Damon succumb.

They would finally break him with their communal grip of dysfunction. He's been a contributing member, but never the focus. Oh, Damon what happeth to you?

Flashback to Toronto Raptors Inaugural Season. Damon is chosen be the Rapt's first player and he is greeted with raucous boos. Response? Rookie of the Year. Isiah Thomas was clearly psychic.

Traded West. Years of irrelevance in Portland were overshadowed by the shocking behavior of his teammates. Somehow his own marijuana charges seemed to pail in comparison to Zach Randolph's history, Shawn Kemp's coke binges (crack in the locker room, too), and recently Qyntel Wood's animal abuse (for more on this, see below).

And yet the Trail Blazers got real boring real quick. A soap opera with bad ratings. They can't even spice it up. They have the most dysfunctional coach in the league outside of Jeff Van Gundy and yet by adding Abdur-Rahim who can take the air out of a balloon, a shockingly toned down Darius Miles and a Nick Van Exel who seems as though the years in Dallas broke him they have lost their zest. Did anyone even hear that Darius Miles was fueding with Maurice?

A team built on boredom because we're all tired of it. I wonder what Mo Cheek's impending flight to Philadephia will mean.

Regardless, Damon is back and with a vengeance. In the past month and a half, he has lost his starting position, regained it, and now improbably teamed with Van Exel for one of the most productive backcourts in the league.

Check it: Scored 54 on 1/14. Averaging 22 points a game in Jan and Feb. Yet, he's still dishing out dimes and is actually rebounding. Leads the league in FT %, too.

Mighty Mouse has regained his might. Good knows he's still lighting up, a story was recently told about blunts in his car. Like the newly insurgent undergroud of America, Damon Stoudamire is joining rank with the Najeh Davenports of the world who say "Where's the manure? There's no proof."

We should all be proud. Now trade him to the Knicks.

Stars, Rock- & All-

So, every full four-seasonal rotation, the two most depressing days of my year fall dangerously close to each other: Valentine’s Day and the release of The Village Voice’s annual Pazz & Jop poll. And as the release of this poll coincides with the announcement of the NBA all-star squads, it is all too tempting to draw comparisons (Kanye West=Ray Allen—entertaining golden boy, but not even close to Bird/Biggie or Jordan/Jay-Z status, Brian Wilson=Shaq—old guy with a surprising amount of gas left in the tank, leader of a former dynasty, Arcade Fire=Steve Nash—Nash and the lead singer of Arcade Fire (presumably) share the same haircut, Franz Ferdinand=Dirk—pretty cool European guys, Green Day=Grant Hill—mediocre now, but they are inextricably linked with all our teenage angsty days)

I’ll stop there, and leave the comments space for us to draw further comparisons. As BSDs (Bill Simmons Disciples) everywhere are coming to learn, it is quite easy to map NBA players on to Pop Culture Icons X, Y, and Z. And so I will spend the rest of this post bitching about the all-star selections.

First, selections that I LOVE: Gilbert Arenas, Rashard Lewis, Zydrunas Ilgauskas, and Shawn Marion. Arenas just has that “Why Not US” attitude that every Eastern Conference player (save a few Detroit/Indiana/Jersey-ites) has been lacking for the past few years. Right now, he is a better leader than supposed “franchise guys” that have been in the league five years longer than him. Lewis and Marion were in danger of getting snubbed just on the basis of team all-star quotas, but both of them have been playing out of their minds all season. And love it or hate it, Z-Ill is the third best C in the league, and the only guy who actually makes Lebron’s game better.

Now, the selections I HATE: Ben Wallace, Ginobili, Antawn Jamison. First off, I love what Jamison is doing for his team, but there is no better sign that the league has fallen off than seeing this guy as a coach’s selection. Seriously. Why don’t we just put Tim Thomas, Bobby Simmons, Wally Szcerbiak, and every other “pretty good scorer” on the squads as well. Ben Wallace: Easily one of my favorite players in the “L,” but it just is not his year. Plus, Rip and/or Chauncey if anyone should be repping the Pistons. And Ginobili…This is the sham of all shams. It is as if the voice of Bill Walton “The MIND of Tim Duncan, the HANDS of Manu Ginobili, the AWARENESS of Beno Udrih, the POISE of Tony Parker, the STAMINA of Tony Massenburg” was tape recorded and subliminally instilled within the heads of Western Conference coaches while they were sleeping. Ginobili’s name has been so omnipresent in the media this season it is as if the coaches were just expected to select him no matter what. Ever since he won the gold, he has been talked about as an all-star. All of this is somehow tied into the Howard Dean scream, in which the sheer overexposure of the issue forced us to make a decision based on this salient piece of information alone. The guy will be a career 15ppg/1.8spg-energy player and that’s about all. He’s the ‘00s version of Michael Cooper/Toni Kukoc/Dennis Johnson/insert great role player here…but he’s no all-star.

And some other thoughts:

SNUB O’ THE YEAR: Chris Webber. This guy’s performance so far has been equivalent to Jim Abbott winning 20 games in a season.

UNDERRATED STORY LINE O’ THE YEAR: Shaq vs. Kobe II. This is an even bigger stage than Round 1. I’m thinking that someone could get very seriously publicly embarrassed.

NATION O’ THE YEAR: China. Seriously, do any people have more team loyalty than these folks? Not only did they blast Yao Ming’s vote total out of the water, but this year they have also led us to a very interesting discovery. Exhibit A: Tracy McGrady has been voted on as an all-star starter when he has been clearly outplayed by Ray-Ray and Steve Nash. Exhibit B: Steve Francis failed to make the all-star team for the first time in three years (after starting the previous year for a superior conference!). I can only account for these findings by assuming that Yao’s homeland brethren have supported his teammates by extension, and that is just an incredible gesture of unity. Can Scott Padgett’s all-star days be far behind?

boxing

My favorite sport besides football and hoops, no question, is boxing. The current state of boxing, corrupt and stupid, makes being a fight fan a difficult task, but a handful of times a year there is a great matchup that reveals how great the sport truly is. Recently I was thinking over my long held belief that Allen Iverson could have played pro football at any of the following positions; running back, qb, fullback, wideout, corner, safety, or special teams ace (I'm not kidding, I think he could have, especially corner, he'd have put deion to shame).

This got me thinking that Iverson could have been a great boxer, and when I say great, I mean sugar Ray Robinson great. Here's why-
Pros

ONE: He's the perfect dimensions for it. Unlike nearly every player in the NBA, he's 5-11, perfect height for a fighter.

TWO:He's rangy and has excellent reach.

THREE: Strength, Unlike a guy like say, Marbury or Baron Davis, he's naturally thin. He has flexible, tensile strength, which is the kind a boxer needs.

FOUR: Weight, Iverson is listed at 165, that's amazing! He's only five pounds away from the middle weight limit. I think Iverson would of started his career at Lightweight, 140 pounds. His first title would have come here, but he would have really struggled to make weight. While he was at 140 nobody would touch him, he'd be too tall and quick, an all time great. He'd then move up to junior welter at 147, welter at 154, and finally end up as a middle at 160. Junior welter would be his best weight, he'd be beating up on guys like de la hoya and mosley. it would be great.

FIVE: Speed, This is the key, this is why he would be fantastic. Speed, both foot and hand, (by hand I mean both the speed of the punches and the ability to let them go in flurries.) is in my opinion the most important factor in fighting. You can have all the skills in the world, but you have to be able to find your opponent, and nobody would be able to touch Iverson. I'm telling you, he would dance and move. He would be like a faster version of Roy Jones Junior. He's just way too athletic for the rest of these guys. The great athletes these days don't go into boxing, Iverson would outclass them all athletically, particularly with his foot speed.

SIX: Toughness - Perhaps the second most important factor in being a great fighter. Iverson has proven himself to be capable of absorbing incredible amounts of damage and continuing to perform. He would not be a guy to quit on his stool or give up after a few tough shots or a broken nose or hand. He's also not a guy who'd back away from a dirty fighter.

SEVEN: STAMINA - An often overlooked component in fighters, again Iverson's athleticism puts him over the top. The guy refuses to leave the game, plays all out the whole time he's on the court. He would be a great 10-12th round finisher.

CONS/QUESTIONS
ONE: Chin - This is really a question. Nobody doubts Iverson's toughness, or that he would get up off the canvas as many times as you put him down, but a chin isn't about toughness, it's a natural trait, some have it, some don't. Tommy Hitman Hearns was an all-time great, a tough sob, but he just didn't have a great chin. Wasn't about toughness, just didn't have it.

TWO: Practice- Fighting is all about roadwork, motivation, sparring, working out. You have to be incredibly disciplined. This is what really ruined Tyson, he was unwilling or unable to put in the work. Iverson is a gamer, as we all know he's not one for practice. I could see him having really great sparring sessions, but I don't know if he'd be willing to put the time in. Boxing is different than bball in that it's three months of work for an hour of performance. Could he do it? It's by far the biggest question mark on Iverson the Boxing Champion.

THREE: Power - Again a doubt, and really not that big of a negative anyway. I don't think Iverson would have great one punch knockout power. However I think he'd be a terrific volume puncher, just beat his opponents down and finish them with sheer stamina and numbers.

FOUR: Discipline- This goes along with practice. Would he learn technique, or be like Roy Jones and just use his natural ability? If he really became a student of the sweet science, a boxer, he would without a doubt go right up there with Ray Robinson. The fear I have is that Iverson would have no back down in him. He would just keep coming. Even if he was up huge on the cards late in a fight he'd keep coming, wouldn't keep his distance. I fear he'd lose a fight or two by brawling when he should box.


So there you go. That's why Iverson would have been an even better boxer than baller. Here is an additional list comparing ballers to boxers.

Roy Jones Junior- Gary Payton The obvious comparison is to Iverson, but Roy never had the heart Iverson did, and his recent slide makes this combo unpallatable. I think Payton works because they were both loudmouths, great in there prime on the defensive end. Everyone now discounts their resume because they're semi washed up, but they were all time greats, hall of famers, just not quite tier one historically great.

Bernard "Executioner" Hopkins- Abdul-Jabbar Neither was very popular and had unfriendly personas, but over the years their greatness added up, and we realized they were the best of their generations. Hopkins has the most title defences, Kareem, most points.

Oscar de la Hoya- T-Mac This one's pretty perfect. Both have beautiful games and play the top competition, but neither has ever gotten over the hump and beaten a truly great fighter.

Kostya Tzyu - Tim Duncan Underrated champions.


Manny Pacqio - Allen Iverson My favorite boxer and baller. Both love the game and show it. both are tough and willing to fight anyone. both are explosive and capable of either knocking or being knocked out.
Bonus:

Mike Tyson - Kobe Bryant Sorry, I just couldn't help it.

(Actually, in all seriousness I'll say Shawn Kemp. Unbelievable primes, could put the fear of God in opponents, then emotional problems and dramatic falls.)