Over at The Baseline, Bethlehem Shoals has bared his soul on the subject of this year's mangled Warriors, and maybe even found some good in there. If nothing else, as a learning experience for those who must touch shoulders with their carnival of doom:
You won't get there but by speaking their language, and then underneath, you figure out where you really stand. It's at once exhilarating and silly to watch Houston score on every possession down the floor in the third, and yet only a vision quest-like encounter with the Warriors—the NBA's great wacked-out foil—can help bring their season into focus.
Or, if you want to get crass, we crave this team's steady stream of nonsense and crash courses that, for all we know, might be part of Nellie's grand design. It drives longtime fans crazy. But when your team isn't going to win, better you stay relevant as a test of others' psychological mettle, accessible only by dark, dank ferry, or keep even yourself guessing about what's up and what's down. Oh, and make sure there's enough there to keep everyone hoping and wondering "what if." That's the Warriors, and that's why they matter. Even if, for those on the inside, it's begun to resemble normal.
Seriously, check it out! It's pushing 1,000 words and could easily have lived on this site, if I weren't trying to keep from anyone accusing me of being a Warriors or Thunder homer. By the way, I think the Power Rankings right now have to go:
You may have noticed that the NBA season started last night, but you may not have realized the full ramifications of that momentous event, such as the fact that the FreeDarko Presents the Disciples of Clyde podcast is back to being just about weekly. If you don't know, now you know.
This week, Dan builds on Shoals's Basketball Prospectus post by talking with Kevin Pelton himself about the new book and also providing a primer on advanced basketball statistics. Even if you, like me, are wary of eggheads who would turn art into science, this is still stuff that we need to at least try to understand. And despite my oft-expressed skepticism, I do think stats can complement what we see with our eyes and help provide a fuller picture of the game. Also, to help you get started, Kevin put together a handy resource page over at Sonics Central. Check it out.
The soundtrack to our lives:
“We Make Beginnings” - Je Ne Sasi Quoi “God Bows to Math” - Minutemen “Something I Learned Today” - Husker Du “You Don’t Know Like I Know” - Sam & Dave
This post follows directly from Dr. LIC's consideration of myth in the NBA, so read that first if you expect to be on my level. Other suggested reading: Pasha Malla on "Where Amazing Happens" during last year's playoffs.
A few weeks ago, I fired off an ill-advised email pitch to an editor, proposing a comparison of divinity in the NBA vs. other sports. The gist: In other leagues, God reveals himself in the form of miracles, an external agent that, no matter what the skill level of the players involved, must intervene in order for The Immaculate Reception, The Catch, The Motor City Miracle, The Shot Heard 'Round the World, or Bill Buckner's Folly, to occur. The NBA, on the other hand, attaches this hand of heaven to players. The Shot is amazing, but there's no question that Jordan and Jordan alone made it happen. That's why we fear him so. Similarly, nicknames like "Black Jesus," "The Chosen One," "Magic", "The Answer," and "The Dream" imply the otherworldly, if not the supernatural. They are the agents, they make "amazing" happen.
How to reconcile this, then, with the writings of Dr. LIC and Pasha? I agree that, as conventionally understood, myth just doesn't adhere to the NBA in the same way as it does football, baseball, or even college hoops, and that forcing that modality onto the Association just feels wrong. What we see, and how we remember it, is always dense, less distant, and despite the prevalence of the highlight, harder to boil down or distill. The highlight may be susceptible to this treatment, but it's worth noting that compared to still photography, the highlight is more clamorously here-and-now—the way, I think, NBA action and memory is best understood. It's not so much about marketing as it is the proper cognitive framework. In the same way that watching a game depends on uninterrupted attention, THE MOMENT can only be abstracted so much.
Unless, of course, we're talking about Jordan. MJ asked in one fairly recent ad if he wrecked the NBA. Certainly, in terms of introducing both myth and split-second history into the fan lexicon, he did. Never mind that Jordan's own myth falls apart if you whitewash his early years with Chicago—he was a menace, not just a young buck paying his dues—and disregard what was being said about Jordan by people who had seen him outside of Dean Smith's system. Or that, as Pasha points out, the highlights that define Jordan's career have been transformed through sheer force of marketing. The Jumpman, iconic as it is, doesn't really capture that dunk. It's just the most convenient way to communicate it as product. The same goes for Jordan-over-Ehlo, or Russell. Bird and Magic might have made the league palletable again, but they existed very much in basketball-time. It took Jordan to really put things over the top, due in large part to Nike's turning him into a myth, and walking bit of history, a la baseball or football.
That's why the NBA wrestles with the problem of mythology—its greatest player ever distorted the sport's true meaning in a clever commercial ploy designed to compete with the NFL and MLB. Fans like myths. But they're not a natural fit for basketball. Jordan fooled us, and it's unfortunate that, to paraphrase Dr. LIC, Kobe and Bron have left to contend with his example. Chasing his example on the court is no problem—it's the distortion of everything else involved in stardom, wrought by Jordan that's left them flummoxed. And, I'd say, made the NBA seem so less impressive in his wake. It's because MJ changed the way we consumed the league, what we expected of subsequent players. Of course, we forgot that Jordan was a process, even his construction as a corporate entity. We were at once too smart and too stupid to appreciate the NBA on its own terms.
This season, I'm not feeling the same prophetic fury I usually do. Bron is Bron, higher than all; Durant will astound us; Kobe's intelligence and discipline can shatter you just to watch. Wade is spectacular, Chris Paul's a walking clinic where the sweets never stop flowing. But I'm not in full-on manifesto mode. I would ordinarily chalk that up to being overworked, or otherwise burdened. But instead, I've realized that I'm finally coming to see the NBA clearly.
And herein lies the answer to the riddle of divinity. What marks the earlier examples of NBA otherworldiness isn't immanence, but action. I'd go so far as to make that "acts." Players who earn these appelations don't rest on their laurels, they define themselves time and time again through simply unfathomable play. We don't watch superstars with eye toward the past or future, but to see them fully realize the present. Vince Carter's "Half-Man, Half-Amazing" gets at the root of it: These are mere mortals who defy these limitations on a regular basis. Not myths expected to fulfill expectations, or symbols lining up to enter history. The NBA is where, above all else, the experience of watching it unfold in real time, only to be eclipsed minutes later, is the essence of stardom. Casual, disposable, and yet utterly indelible.
We are all witnesses, but that doesn't mean we're not greedy for more.
Read Dr. LIC on myth across all sports. Check Joey lamenting his age. But if you really want to get ready for tomorrow, watch this music video from outsider dancehall seer—and gung ho NBA fan—SNIPA, and maybe even his statement to the media about track. Not since that "Ron Artest" joint has a song gotten me so amped for the season. Especially the underwater season.
Ever since we used to write for McSweeney's, I haven't been able to break the habit of considering every basketball-related thought I have in the context of other sports. Particularly in 2009, one thought has come up over and over again, which is the degree to which the NBA completely pales in comparison to the NFL and MLB in terms of its capacity to sustain myth-making.
I started thinking about this when the David Ortiz steroid allegations came to light coinciding almost perfectly with me moving to Boston. First we saw Shoeless Joe-meets-Hugh Grant levels of disbelief. Cities burned, babies cried. America had a punctured ventricle. Then, just as quick as the World Trade Center of baseball came down, majestic eagles rebuilt a monument to pride and greatness. Ortiz went on a tear for a few months, he went John McCain on other potential steroid users--"I will make them famous and you will know their names!"--and then gets cheered into the playoffs, along with A-Rod, Andy Pettite, Manny Ramirez and the rest of the dopers.
Guys like Manny and Papi are Pecos Bill and John Henry. They are myths, denied the inner lives of human beings, and manufactured into suprahuman symbols of physical majesty. The questions have stopped, the steroid biz completely forgotten until (maybe) these guys are long retired and it's hall of fame voting time. We don't really know much about their pasts or what they do on their off days. They don't Twitter. And given their past post-season heroics, they are squarely in the category of legend, rather than celebrity. The MLB is full of guys like this: grizzled white dudes like Mark Buehrle, they-came-from-nowhere Latinos, Miyagi-esque Asians like Ichiro, Jimmy Rollins, fan favorites like Torii Hunter...these are men, made into myths.
As I watch Brett Favre every Sunday (as now I am contractually obligated to do as a Vikings fan--NO LIBERATED FANDOM FOR OTHER SPORTS), the parallel becomes clear for football. There are a whole slew of mystical apparitions--Favre, Brady, and Ray Lewis among them. Guys that simply have a whole bunch of games under their belt, like Jon Runyan or Steve Hutchinson, are in there as well. And skill players like Randy Moss or LaDanian Tomlinson also have attained myth status for various memorable single-game performances. I suppose Monday Night Football and the ritual of SUNDAY helps sustain the game's spiritual character, but--and you see where I'm going with this--I'm always left wondering why the NBA is lacking so much in terms of creating and sustaining myth.
A few theories:
--A huge part of myth is the mystery surrounding one's creation. Baseball is chock full of great foreign players, the pasts of whom are much more unknown: I have no idea what Vladimir Guerrero or Magglio Ordonez' life was like in Latin America. Both the NFL and MLB rely more on OLD players, guys who succeed well into their late 30s, and sometimes even 40s. These guys are pre-Internet. There simply wasn't as much access to the lives of guys who started their careers in the late 80s or early 90s. The NBA, by comparison is a younger sport. The best guys are the new generation. Every single rookie has a Twitter account. We know where they came from and what they're doing. Even the league's elder statesman, Shaq, is also the king of Twitter, and has goofballed his way our of holding any mythical cred.
--The NBA utilizes history incorrectly. The NFL creates history on the go--every WEEK some record is being set (think about how many times in the past few years, you've heard the term "longest play in NFL history"), and they shove down our throat meaningless statistics about the "Monday Night Record for X" or the first time on Thanksgiving a runningback has both ran and thrown for a first down. The MLB markets itself well in this regard as well. October gets special special treatment, the playoffs are also more well-rooted in American history, so they are already have a touch of built-in nostalgia. By contrast, the NBA's past overshadows its present. The lig's two best players, LeBron and Kboe, are forever cast in Jordan's shadow. Jordan is myth, Kobe and Bron are simply scholars of his work.
--We always champion the NBA as the one league where you get to see guys without facemasks, up close on the court, virtually in the flesh. This gives the game a sense of immediacy that you simply don't get with any other sport. I'm starting to wonder, however, if this close distance might be too much of a good thing. We know these guys too personally, and it inhibits us from knowing them eternally.
Hark, the season is nearly upon us, so it's time for a podcast where Dan and myself . . . talk about what a letdown it is when the season actual starts? Well, sort of. We do some preview-y stuff, then end up discussing the wish-list-y nature of all previews, as well as the "wait and see" period of the first couple months. Naturally, there's a long discussion of Flip Murray.
Then, I go to sleep and our pal Seth from Posting and Toasting stops by to chat with Dan about the Knicks, visiting camp as a blogger, and general NBA.
Fun fact: Ken is absent because he's busy with new child. The child's name is Walter, supposedly after a grandparent, but I think he just doesn't want to choose between Clyde and Bellamy.
Songs from the episode:
“Why Did You Leave Me” - Barrington Levy “Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger” - Daft Punk “Youngblood” - Russian Circles “Same Team, No Game” - Gang Starr “Beginning to See the Light” - The Velvet Underground “Starting All Over Again” - Mel & Tim
In no way does this make me exceptional, but I’ve reached a point in life during which I am consistently reminded about my age. (To be exceptional, I’d have to be able to fondly recall Adrian Dantley with Yasser Arafat while in an Upper West Side synagogue.)
I refer to childhood touchstones that elicit blank stares from my law-school classmates, among whom important things such as Voltron do not resonate. Playing sports for too long makes my right knee hurt. My favorite music was released about fifteen years ago, when I was in high school. Prospective employers ask me why I’ve already switched careers twice. (To become NBA commissioner. Duh.) Almost all of my long-time friends have recently gotten engaged, married, gay, or gay and married. I am 28 years old.
My early and mid twenties were spent obstinately trying to prevent this time from arriving. I would bristle if anyone referred to me as an adult and cite adolescent children as my emotional peers. A birthday was the most depressing moment of any year. All the while, I quietly conceded the inevitability of aging, and even regarded myself as magnanimous when I realized, early last fall, that upon leaving behind a developed adult life in New York for a second try at high school in Missouri, I was happy to be a grown-ass man. It was the sort of calm revelation that surprises before instantly settling as obvious. I parked a car which I leased in my own name, walked into an apartment fully decorated with furniture I assembled on my own, and willingly opened a book about contracts so that I might get ahead. Measured risk, self-sufficiency, responsible choices--I had arrived.
It’s not all cardigan sweaters, warm milk, and world weariness, of course. I exuberantly run around school in a unicorn shirt on days when my flag football team has a game. I like going to Olive Garden’s never-ending-pasta-bowl nights and telling dirty jokes with the waitresses. The flag of piracy still flies from my mast. And let’s be real: 28 isn’t 78; that’s a destination not even on the horizon.
Romanticizing youth and mourning age are equally easy. Appreciating an ongoing transformation is somewhat harder. That’s why I am taking this moment to welcome back our beloved Association with my enthusiasm, normally so loudly pronounced, somewhat muted by reflection.
The build up to this season has been a quiet time for me. Entrenched stars of the new establishment--LeBron, and Dwyane, and Chris, and Dwight--are thrilling. For a number of them, the questions focus on when they will cross the threshold of all-time greatness. The excitement they’ll offer is assured. Yet the ascendancy (if they even remain ascendant) of these post post-Jordan saviors necessarily implies that they have passed by their predecessors. Predecessors with whose legacy the public remains uneasy, and who will collectively be remembered by history for having carried the burden of redemption after Michael. With this class of tortured heroes in mind, opening night is shaping up to resemble a reunion down the line more than a first day of classes. A generation that defined not only the NBA’s post-Jordan growth but also my own personal transition is coming to its end. This year feels like a gathering valedictory.
There are the accomplished folks, those who adhered to their stated intentions and are celebrated for making it: Tim, now hobbling more noticeably but not quite ready to submit; Kevin, whose protestations to the contrary cannot fully mask the wear and tear; Kobe, with nothing left to prove; Jason, timeless in his own way. Perhaps Shaq (though as the years accumulate, he increasingly seems like his own era, in some ways, both for chronological and stylistic reasons). There are the fuck ups, too. The kids who squandered their potential or never really had any. Some of them won’t even show: Glenn, Keith, Tim, Ron, Steph.
And then there are so many others whose stories defy neat categorization and whose appearances at the function engender polite admiration but also unavoidable disappointment. Think of the ambivalence, the confusion, the mixtures of conditional praise we’ll conjure as we see Ray Ray, Tracy, and Paul again. Or Grant, Sheed, J.O., Vince, and Chauncey. Anyone know if Antoine and Stack are coming? And, of course, Allen. A.I. will be the dude who could show up in any condition, and it wouldn’t be surprising after all that’s been done, seen, and heard.
We are about to embark upon an era’s denouement. Preseason forecasts have made a similar declaration in recent years, but this season is different. To start, the 2009 playoffs were almost exclusively owned by the next generation. Even the old-NBA Celtics were dominated by their emerging point guard, he of this burgeoning oligarchy. Old-NBA Kobe Bryant won, but he played for history. What greater validation could there have been than the immediate, reflexive glances backwards? The Lakers’ title, won with Pau and Bynum, may have portended continued success, but more than anything, it was about Bryant’s legacy.
Moreover, the NBA players drafted in the mid and late nineties have themselves conceded that this will be the end. Roscoe went to Boston to mount a final championship push before KG’s knee fully gives out and injuries and age weather Ray and Paul Pierce to the point of dullness. The Spurs added Richard Jefferson because biding time and playing for the tomorrow of 2010 is apparently not a luxury which Tim Duncan can afford. Vince has embraced third-option status on a Magic team that is almost entirely powered by an engine of the new NBA. Allen Iverson has devolved into a Memphis sideshow attraction. Elsewhere, older stars of the soon bygone era are reliant upon their younger teammates: Chauncey needs Carmelo; Nash and Grant Hill need Amare; Jermaine needs Dwyane; Tracy needs to retire; Shawn Respert needs food. Even Shaq--Shaquille O’Neal!--needs no less than LeBron James.
So I have reached yet another reminder of my age. The suddenly old guard begins to fade along with my youth; the league evolves along with my fan perspective.
Kevin Garnett was drafted during the summer before I entered ninth grade. I was thirteen, and I vividly remember running to the telephone at summer camp to discuss the draft with my father. As any barely pubescent, aspiring NBA savant might have, I diligently regurgitated everything I’d read in the newspaper as though they were my own opinions. “Garnett’s supposed to be really good, and really versatile,” I said. “He’s straight from high school, too. That’s young!” I exclaimed, a full four years away from being draft eligible myself (you know, had I been a better player). I didn’t know it at the time, but Garnett’s arc as a player, like the larger narrative about his generation, would go on to mirror my fan identity.
Weaned on an Association dominated by Jordan and populated by the legendary bumper crop of hall-of-fame players who debuted in the middle and late 80s, as an adolescent I greeted the NBA with wonderment and an expectation of excellence. I assumed that the league’s trajectory would remain on the growth course it enjoyed as my fan consciousness emerged during my formative years.
Over time, my evergreen enthusiasm for the sport mixed with an understanding of the athletic, social, cultural, and market forces surrounding the league. It was natural; I grew up. I remained committed, but I steadily understood a much larger experience that accounted for everything else in the basketball realm. For instance, adoring the NBA was not universal, I learned. Plenty of fans were disenchanted, frustrated, indifferent. Likewise, my take on player transactions, the sport’s mechanics (don’t bring the ball down, big man!), and the business of basketball all grew deeper, adding layers sometimes in conflict.
The NBA is no less fun for me now. I continue to hoot and holler at my television, or evangelize on Twitter about the glory of Chris Douglas-Roberts. But I also see a broader image than the one to which I clung as a child. The officiating can be awful. The sneakers aren’t what they once were. The access to players is much better. And so forth. A panoramic approach affords the opportunity to dwell upon what’s passing while still being excited about what remains going forward.
It has been no different for the generation we will soon lose. Folks looked to Garnett and his peers to continue the work Michael et al. started, growing the sport’s popularity and elevating its execution. The “Next Jordan” basketball hype that seemed to swirl endlessly alongside the manic search for expanding revenue asked this new class of NBA players to meet an unrealistic standard. When stories about prep-to-pros players and increasing athleticism grew stale, when it became clear that Michael was an exception and not a new rule, the narrative twisted. Over time, it cast KG and those of his era as inadequate, no matter how intrinsically great the accomplishments.
Arguing about whether the characterization of inadequacy is just or not has grown tedious. Without judgment, we can likely all agree that the Kevins, the Tims, and also the Mercers, came to the NBA under the weight of great expectations, carved out an epoch with many more shades of gray than expected, and now begin their departure worn by highs and lows. As I said, this progression isn’t so different from that of the innocent fan whose appreciation and cynicism both grow over time, leaving him free to relish the good and understand the bad.
But, for being a vessel; for being a companion; for living our progress--for these things, this group of departing players deserves our attention. These players facilitated growth, served as reliable friends in a way, and were, in part, projections of fandom. They are less heroic but more human. Accordingly, those of my age group surely must take a moment as the NBA again approaches to consider fully what it means for the era of our definition to be winding down. The trumpets heralding a new regal class will still be echoing when we finish.
Big surprise, in college I was drawn to philosophy early. Eventually, I was bitten by the Continental bug, writing papers about Levinas and improvisation. Meanwhile, some notable percentage of my buddies in arms had gotten all Analytic on me. Those relationships were never the same again.
I've heard that these days, the two sides are trying to patch things up. The flights of fancy and grand systemic thinking that fascinated me decided they needed an anchor; on the other side, the Anglo stuff started to acknowledge stuff like culture, context, history, and the possibility that ratty, wild-eyed "thinking" had a place in methodology. I'm not sure if that's exactly how the equation works, but this reconciliation is a great way to bring up Pro Basketball Prospectus 2009-10.
While I'm aware of the futility, or at least the limitations, of box score stats, they're still an important part of player mythos for me. In short, you might be inclined to think of FreeDarko's interpretive ravings as a return to an even more primitive time, when sports were much more literature than science. That would put us on the Continental side of things: ecstatic, expansive, and possibly total bullshit. Then there's the world of advanced statistics, a positivism that dissolves phenomenon and their traditional measures of them into lies and inaccuracies, leaving in its wake a new, more precise form of inquiry.
Given all that, you'd expect PBP 2009-10 to only interest me so much. Any well-organized, impeccably-researched guide to every team, every player, and every important theme for the coming season, is fine by me; in this respect, this book is absolutely indispensable, and has very nearly hamstrung me when it comes to writing to writing my own previews. But I don't just respect PBP 2009-10, or find it a handy reference tool. It's insistently readable, consistently eye-opening, and, from where I'm sitting, an invaluable ally in the project FD has sought to undertake from day one.
To go back to that fateful split, the central cause for disagreement was over Truth itself. In a practical sense, it boiled down to whether Truth was ecstatic and sprawling or harsh and precise; follow through on that, and you end up with a disagreement over whether or not Truth actually exists or not. Any truce would proceed from the assumption that neither side had a monopoly on Truth—that each, in its own way, valued and sought to illuminate a different facet of the same phenomena. The two approaches would complement each other, provided they accepted this common purpose rather than focus on antagonization.
After reading over a few chapters of PBP 2009-10 early last week, I told Kevin that what struck me most was how funny it was. He was confused, and I couldn't explain what I meant—as readers of KP know, that's rarely the first impression you get from his writing. But then I settled on this passage about Lawrence Frank as my case in point:
Lawrence Frank is the dean of Eastern Conference coaches, entering his fifth full season at the helm of the Nets, yet he is also the second-youngest NBA head coach and will not turn 40 until next summer. Frank has generally been an average coach during his time in New Jersey, winning or losing depending upon the talent he has been given, and doesn’t have any clear statistical profile. If the Nets cut him loose at season’s end, Frank will get another chance quickly, and deservedly so.
It is virtually impossible to read that without laughing out loud. Why? Because it lays bare the sheer absurdity of Lawrence Frank's career, the mess that much of the East remains, and the bizarre culture of coaching hires in the NBA. Only a very, very small percentage of the Association makes perfect sense, lacks wondrous imperfections, or really does fit together like clockwork. PBP deconstructs traditional statistics to reveal something that's, well, more true than the usual drivel. Watching the TNT crew of experts last night, I couldn't believe how oblivious or wrong-headed they were. FD takes root in all the material that Reggie Miller fails to pick up on, but that's right in front of you every time you turn on the television. PBP is the other side of this coin, tearing down empty myths and conventional wisdom so we can see what a complex, and convoluted, game pro basketball really is—and what a bizarre state so many teams find themselves in. That can mean "totally fucked," but also "unique and beautiful like a snowflake." Or both.
Not to get all Oklahoma! on you, but I think there's a reason Kevin Pelton and I get along in real life. While our approaches couldn't be more different, stylistically-speaking, at the end of the day we both want to illuminate the NBA, to make sure fans get a chance to appreciate it as both well-considered quantitative analysis and as FD's poetic meltdown—the qualitative. At the end of the day, though, I know we're talking about, and value, the same league. Not just that, it's the same version of the league. Presumably, anyone reading FD feels like we make something about the NBA more clear than it would otherwise be. This clarity, this belief that there's a "real NBA" to be conveyed, is also the point of PBP 2009-10.
Note: I'm guessing that this Gelf piece by myself and Tom Ziller gets at some of the same stuff. Oh, and that Ziller fellow, he's like the embodiment of everything I'm talking about here. The grand synthesis, if you will. Track him down and haunt his house.
The season stirs. Roy Hibbert will fuck you up. Thus, get ready for more podcast, and more of it. If you catch my drift.
This week, Dan and I visit with SLAM don Lang Whitaker to discuss that seminal mag's 15th anniversary, where it fits into journalism, and what a great job it is. Then we start talking Hawks at about the same time as tiny space aliens inject me with large amounts of drugs, but whatever, Jamal Crawford is the shit and I have nothing to hide. If you want to see Lang and I in the same room, hit up BwB 2.0 in Vegas next week.
Some serious business: Visit the Disciples of Clyde so you can support Dan in the Chicago Pancreatic Cancer Research Walk on Saturday, October 17. On a more upbeat note, Ken just had a baby. Congrats!
Music from the episode: "King of Ink" - The Birthday Party "Slapped Up (Snap N Clap)" - Madlib "Styles of the Times" - Yo La Tengo "The Hawk" - The Melvins "Dreamland Skank" - The Upsetters
Today, the all-seeing eye of Bethlehem Shoals put this gem "on blast" (to use a phrase from the younger generation) over at The Baseline. Because this moment is vintage FD "racial semiotics," it requires a full reprinting here, and a close reading: Wizards swingman Mike Miller wore James' Nike shoes to practice and was told by teammate DeShawn Stevenson, "We don't wear these around here."
James said he didn't care. "Mike is a good friend of mine," he said. "He named his son after my best friend, Maverick (Carter). We have a good history."
James said Miller should lace up his sneakers, though. "For an unathletic white guy, these are the best shoes to wear," James said.
A few things of note:
(1) Mike Miller and LeBron James are very good friends. This is strange. Hardly as strange as, say, the Tyronn Lue-Kevin Garnett bond of brothers, but it is strange in a "how the f did they meet in the first place" way (Team USA, presumably). This also leads one to wonder the mechanism by which a friendship gave birth Miller's famous profession (via Twitter) of a man-crush on LeBron back in May.
(2) Mike Miller named his child after his friend's best friend/business manager, which is equally strange. This gesture suggests one of three possible types of intended closeness (a) a respectful distance--like, "Yo dawg don't worry, I'm not gonna name my son 'LeBron Miller,' but I will name him Maverick Miller," (b) sniveling brown-noser status, as in, "Hey LeBron, guess what cool I thing *I* did." (c) stalker-level fatal attraction obsessional closeness, as in, "If it was a girl, we were going to name it Gloria."
(3) Typically LeBron is not humorous. Here he deadpans a perfect "white people drive like this" joke, and just prior makes a crack about the Braylon Edwards situation, stating, "You guys haven't asked me before about any other trades in the NFL."
(4) LeBron's shoes are ugly as sin, and wearing someone else's shoes (EXCEPT JORDANS) is almost as bad as Iverson (or was it Sheed) wearing another team's throwback to the game, in the pre-dress-code days. Who else wears these in the NBA?
(5) Mike Miller is getting twice sonned here, once by DeShawn Stevenson for laying down the law, and once by Bron for seemingly giving Miller "permission" to wear the shoes.
(6) An MJ moment? Brown Recluse, Esq. wondered whether this is LeBron's take on MJ's famous, "Republicans buy shoes, too" aphorism, given that, in the Recluse's words, "most Republicans tend to be unathletic white people" (No Schwarzenego).
(7) STEREOTYPES ARE FUNNY. Even though LeBron's air-tight personal PR game slipped, in this instance, we like him all the more for it. This comment--small as it is--redeems something I've always loved about the NBA in particular (see John Kruk's "Lady, I'm not an athlete..." for the counter)--that athletic guys beat nonathletic guys in everything including cool points (no racial subtext), and they can joke about it and be technically racist but in a non-offensive way, and we chortle back and then a moment like this lights up the internet like fireworks on Guy Fawkes day.
Not only is Polvo my favorite band ever, they're also arguably the biggest sports fans in indie rock history. They're playing the Crocodile in Seattle tonight, and you should see them if you live in my city. Dave Brylawski has done a ton of press lately, but hopefully there's something new in here. Oh, and sorry for the shortage of pictures, I wanted to get this up before tonight!
Bethlehem Shoals: Okay, so I guess we're going to try and do this formal interview now. I'm having trouble not just asking all the random fan questions I've stored up over the years.
Dave Brylawski: Well, ask them.
BS: That would be totally unprofessional. Like, should I ask what the hell the songs were generally about? The Recluse tried to convince me they were all about girls.
DB: Some girls, some mature life stuff. I don't know. Probably a lot of them aren't about much. Abstract feelings. We're not a topical band, songwriting-wise.
BS: Let me try something more journalist-y. How do you feel about now being referred to as, among other things, one of the defining guitar bands of the indie era? No offense, but I never realized Polvo had so much influence.
DB: Actually, we're in this weird zone. A lot of the press that's written about us now is about how small we are, and how we sabotaged ourselves and never really capitalized on [our success]. We're in this netherworld where we're not big, but we're big enough that we're still playing 20 years later.
BS: Do you think you've gotten bigger in death than in life?
DB: I don't know if we've gotten bigger, but we've definitely had some staying power that I never would've predicted when we stopped playing in nineties. The funny thing is, we stopped playing in 1998, and for a couple years, it died a very quick death, and you didn't really hear much about Polvo. But then a few years later, it started to get back to me that people hadn't forgotten Polvo, which was nice, and unexpected, and a little strange, actually.
I don't know why some bands get lost in time and others stay on people's minds, and we're fortunate that we did. There were a lot of good ones from our era, and I don't know why someone would remember us as opposed to, say, Unwound.
BS: It might have something to do with the trouble people have always had figuring out your sound. I always got annoyed when Polvo was described as "math-y."
DB: There’s a lot of math rock bands I really like. I think our umbrage with that descriptor is more that we didn’t feel like we were completely worthy of it. Polvo definitely has a primitive-ness that’s antithetical to math-rock. I think it’s just more like our stopping and starting within a song. Most of our songs are 4/4. Sometimes we slip in some extra some stuff, but we’re pretty straightforward, time-signature wise. We get asked about it all the time, though. I think because it's on our Wikipedia page.
BS: And before that there were the Sonic Youth comparisons.
DB: If you read our very early interviews, early 90s, one of the questions is always "who are your influences?" And it’s like so obvious who are influences are that we would say, “We don’t have any influences.” But it’s so fucking obvious that Husker Du, Meat Puppets, and Sonic Youth are our influences. We became more comfortable later on acknowledging how important they were to us.
The main thing we share with Sonic Youth is that they’re very much a rock band. As experimental as they are, they’re still at the core a rock band that pushes whatever envelopes they push and I think we share that element too. We’re a rock band. It’s not more mystical than that, unfortunately; there’s no mysticism involved. Two guitars, bass, drums.
BS: At some point after Polvo had broken up, I put on "Dancing Days" and was struck by how much it reminded me of Today's Active Lifestyles.
DB: I always sort of felt like Polvo was sort of a classic rock band, even in the early nineties. That was always a touchstone. To me, it was a continuation of the mindset of bands from the sixties who still wanted to rock but feel like we had the freedom to do some other things, other than than writing standard bridges and choruses. I don't like calling it "experimental," but just kind of pushing it a little bit and playing with it. Psychedelic, I guess. But again, to me we are just a rock band, I don’t think we’re that left field. But people seem to think we are. I don't know where that comes from, really.
BS: Seriously?
DB: I think a band like Thinking Fellers or Sun City Girls, they're pretty left-field. Compared to them, Polvo's like a bar band.
BS: Okay, onto sports. So I hear you hate Roy Williams.
DB: No, I don't hate Roy Williams! I have a complicated relationship with Roy Williams. I definitely appreciate what he’s brought to Carolina. The whole Kansas thing two years ago was sort of tough. Like our friends who think about this stuff, we think having to play Kansas, Roy didn’t know how to deal with that. It got into the kids’ heads a little bit. There was a lot of leading up to that, Roy saying he didn’t know how to coach against Kansas, Roy saying, "Half my heart’s still in Kansas." You don’t want to hear that shit as a Heels fan. That game was crazy. That ruined Billy Packer’s career, I think. When Billy Packer said, "it’s over" like four minutes into the game when Kansas got up by like 26 (Carolina did get back in that game). But that left a bad taste in my mouth which was finally sort of cleaned out by last year, of course. I like Roy. There is something John Edwards-y about him though. I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it's that "aw-shucks"-ness about them that feels kind of forced.
I miss Dean, is what it comes down to. There will never be another coach like Dean. Dean was a god growing up. I was 13 when they won in 1982, but I remember way before that, when they had Walter Davis and Tommy LaGarde and lost to Al Maguire and Marquette. I went to Carmichael to welcome the team home and everything. When you're young and a Carolina fan, those are the best years, even though they didn't win a championship. That's when I used to cry every time they lost. They'd lose to State and I would cry. God, Norm Sloan and those plaid pants.
BS: It was really hard for me to accept that UNC players didn't all go on to become All-Stars.
DB: Well, I'm older than you, so Walter Davis, Bob McAdoo, Phil Ford . . . they had amazing pros.
BS: But see, I thought Chapel Hill was the center of the basketball universe. If I saw Pete Chillcut on the street, I thought I'd had an important life-experience. Then to see guys turn into non-entities at the next level . . . it just didn't make sense to me.
DB: But maybe it's like Polvo. You get these mixed messages. There's Pete Chillcut . . . but there's Phil Ford. There's Pete Butko. . but there's James Worthy. There's always enough reinforcement there. I. When I was a young kid growing up at Carolina, they had the best basketball player to ever play the game and the best defensive football player to ever play the game. Carolina and athletics have always been sort of magical to me. [Polvo's bass player Steve Popson] is going to kill me, because he's a huge State fan and hates Carolina. He's a weird guy, though. His dad played for the Redskins and the Redskins are his least favorite team in the NFL.
I don't know why I'm linking this to Polvo, but it's that same kind of netherworld where there's just enough information to confirm your fantasy that Polvo is special and magical. I'm not saying Polvo is special and magical, but to me I can sit here and say "oh, we're just a rock band," but maybe there's just enough that . . . I'm not going to say transcends that, but lifts it out of it. We're not a bar band, even if I sometimes say we are.
BS: What would say was Polvo's most bar band-y show?
DB: Like our third show, I don’t know how, but we got $300 to play this club in Wilmington, North Carolina. Three hundred dollars at the time was exorbitant. After Cor-Crane Secret came out we would play shows and make $50 a night. I don’t know what they were expecting. We only had five songs and had to play everything twice. It was awful. They didn’t get their money’s worth.
I do have a lot of respect for bar bands. It's just as valid as anything Thinking Fellers does.
BS: Back to what you just said about Polvo and UNC: I'm beginning to think you don't have any perspective on Polvo whatsoever.
DB: I probably don't, because it’s a progression of what I’ve been doing since I was 13 years old, playing in my bedroom. I don’t have that perspective that it’s anything but expressing myself through my guitar and expressing myself with my friends. That’s another thing about Polvo too, is that we were friends for a long time before we played together. I hope that shows.
BS: The music has always been a lot less self-conscious than one would expect. Especially live.
DB: That's the thing about "experimental" that makes me bristle a little bit. I don’t think we see ourselves as wizards concocting magic spells. We really do just get in the van and play. We’re more in that lineages and that’s maybe because I read too many rock bios. But we’re friends that just started playing rock music and have fun.
BS: I've got to say, though, it did kind of creep me out that you were playing this fucked-up music but weren't particularly artsy or eccentric.
DB: I think people do sort of freak out on the fact that we're just normal, sports-loving guys. We're not frat boys, or conservative computer programmers, but I think it is a little head-scratching for some people that we're so normal.
BS: Well, that's why I found you a lot more disturbing than I did Ash. At least he seemed to fit the part.
DB: I think that's probably somewhat conscious. I never bought into the whole art vs. sports dichotomy, like that you can’t be into both because I really think sports is art, sort of. It’s personal expression and it’s very pure. I’ve always been a sports fan and have been able to see the transcendence of sports. How is that different than art? I’m not equating the two necessarily; I'm not saying LeBron James is equal to Michelangelo. But it’s personal expression and there’s a purity to it. I think my experiences with sports are more playing them. I always sort of fancy myself a decent athlete. The two times I’ve felt the freest is playing basketball and playing guitar. That element of mindfulness, that you’re in your head but you’re not actually in your head, analytically.
I do have insight into why that split happened because I think that a lot of people who are into art had bad experiences when they were young with sports. That’s why being from Carolina is so important. They’re basing that on elementary school or middle school being thrown in with a bunch of angry, misanthropic jocks and not being good at sports, having that imprinted like, “Sports is dumb and inelegant”. But growing up in Carolina, all the cool rock bands grew up loving Carolina sports. It was sort of more just something you did, like playing guitar.
BS: I wonder if there's any other general explanation for sports/indie rock crossover, or if it's sometimes just a function of the individual.
DB: There are so many similarities to music. It's personal expression if you're playing it, but there's also the social function of rooting for a team and going to games. Why wouldn’t you like both? In Chapel Hill, it's not like that. Even the music geeks like Carolina basketball because it's just what you do. But yeah, there is community aspect to it, just like the indie rock thing. You go to the Cradle and hang out and see all your friends, or you watch a Carolina basketball game and see all your friends. It’s like chocolate and peanut butter. They go together.
I don't feel good, so here's some advice: I have been writing these gargantuan team previews over at my other spot. They are really weird and make me dizzy just to recall them. You should peruse them: Under the tag that bears their name, The Baseline Sees All you can see the ones I've done thus far. So many words. So much fun. Especially when I've only done the league's worst teams so far.
FreeDarko's European correspondent Julien (from 12 Stars) checks in with a report about recently drafted Euro Christian Eyenga and a dunk that may very well have upped the ante on Gerald Green's infamous "cupcake dunk."
Forget about Spike Lee, forget about Michael Mann and Paul Thomas. The future of film making lies in a Cleveland Cavaliers first round pick. On Saturday night Democratic Republic of Congo swingman Christian Eyenga turned the Spanish League (ACB) Slam-Dunk contest into a sixth grade movie contest. The DKV Joventut Badalona player (Ricky Rubio's former team) was battling with a Brit, a Lithuanian and a former Denver Nuggets second round pick whose second name consists of one 'u' and four 'l'. After going for a mighty windmill and a pretty wicked between the legs, Christian pushed things a little further.
The ACB Slam Dunk Contest has a history of producing errh...creative dunks. Former Piston Walter Herrmann dunked through a ring of fire and future Blazer Victor Claver is notorious for dunking on two baskets at the same time and putting a Sombrero on while slamming the ball. But this time Eyenga went big budget. Storyboard, supporting cast. Similar to a WWE exhibition or a Romanian porn. A cheerleader stormed on the court with a baby crying then showed Eyenga the baby burst into tears because his little teddy bear was somehow hanging on the rim. The baby did not look like this guapa. She could have been a kidnapper. You think the guy would have questioned his identity ? Instead he ran down the court with the ball, abused the rim and fetched the bear with his teeth. He then retrieved the puppet to the baby and gave a little tap that could have given the fake baby a cerebral commotion. The crowd and the jury of course loved it. And Eyenga was even given two 10.5. The 20-year old was rewarded 7.000 euros for his creativity.
What does it mean for the Cavs and the NBA? That Gilbert Arenas has some competition down the line. That Eyenga could be a retweet phenom for The Real Shaq. That there's nothing I'd like to see more than Eyenga directing future team-mate Delonte West.
If you hadn't noticed yet, the braids are back. I'll leave it to you, the reader, to speculate about what that means for Iverson's game, career, and relationship with the city of Memphis or the South writ large. While you marinate on that, check out Shoals's wild and wooly take on AI and the new look Grizzlies, and enjoy this photo essay dedicated to the career of Allen Iverson.
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