Every now and then social scientists find something interesting to say about our hallowed league, but it is usually within moments that the finding goes viral, and is swallowed, chewed, and spit out by every sports geek like me on the internet. In this korner, I will attempt to present findings on the NBA "before they go mainstream," presenting the most up to date research that illuminates the inner workings of the Association we hold so dearly.
The first entry comes courtesy of psychologists Graeme Haynes of University of Western Ontario and Thomas Gilovich (who did the original research on the "hot hand") of Cornell University, who recently published a paper called "Ball Don't Lie: How Inequity Aversion Can Undermine Performance" in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology*. The paper formally tests a cognitive explanation for the hypothesis frequently put forth by Rasheed Wallace that says that a player will often miss free throws after getting a foul that he does not deserve. The explanation that Haynes and Gilovich point to is a phenomenon known as inequity aversion, the idea that people prefer to avoid unfairness and injustice (even if sometimes it is not in their best interest to do so).
A study from earlier this year demonstrated inequity aversion by setting up a scenario in which two individuals were given unequal portions of money at the outset of the study ($50 versus $0). This created inequality such that one subject was a high-pay subject and one subject was the low-pay subject. Each subject then had their brains scanned while looking at slides that showed further monetary transfers either to oneself (self transfers) or to the other person in the study (other transfers). What happened was that high-pay subjects rated other transfers to be more positive whereas low-pay subjects rated self transfers to be more positive, both demonstrating that they enjoyed transfers that narrowed the money disparity between the two. Furthermore, brain activation mirrored these explicit evaluations--regions involved in the experience of reward corresponded to subjects evaluations of the transfers, suggesting that people felt that transfers that reduced inequality were more rewarding. The takeaway: People dislike inequality, even when they are in a position of higher gains.
Now back to hoops. Haynes and Gilovich examined whether inequality aversion plays out in the NBA by looking at whether players miss more free throws after an obviously incorrect call. The authors watched 102 games from the 2007-2008 season and noted any instance of an obviously incorrect call. This was always done BEFORE the fouled player went to the free throw line, and yielded a total of 77 identified obviously incorrect calls. Four additional coders examined the calls and showed substantial agreement about their incorrect nature. Then, the authors calculated free throw percentage for the first shot after these incorrect calls, which turned out to be a whoppingly low 53.2%, substantially lower than the league average for the season on first-shot free throws, 73.6% (the league average was 77.8% for second-shot free throws). This suggests inequity aversion--players felt significantly less comfortable making a free throw after receiving an unjust foul call.
Home versus away status did not matter, the player's normal free throw percentage did not matter, but what did matter was whether the team of the player shooting the free throw was currently ahead in the game. The inequity aversion effect emerged significantly more often when the team of the player shooting the free throw was ahead, suggesting that players aren't so concerned with fairness that they will miss while their team needs the points. Self-interest takes over at that point.
The main question for this finding--which the authors raise as well--is about the extent to which this inequity aversion occurs on a conscious level. If you asked players whether they are intentionally missing shots after getting bogus calls, 99% of them would obviously say no. Another question I have is what are the circumstances in sports where players are completely ok with inequity. The past year has seen soccer referees, baseball umpires, and NBA refs absolutely crucified for their shoddy work...and the beneficiaries of this ineptitude are usually are the only not complaining.
*Abstract as follows:
Previous research has found that people are often averse to inequity, even when it works to their own advantage. The present research extends previous demonstrations of inequity aversion by examining how it plays out in a real-world context in which self-interest motivations and competitive pressures are substantial. National Basketball Association games were examined and instances of obviously incorrect foul calls were identified. Players were found to make a substantially lower percentage of the foul shots they were awarded as a result of incorrect calls, indicating that they were troubled by the inequity. This drop-off in performance was only observed when the shooter’s team was ahead, highlighting the trade-off between the two conflicting motives of self-interest (the desire to win) and inequity aversion.
By now, everyone reading this website knows the stories reputed as the biggest to come from the Draft, and almost all of them are driven by free agency and salary capism. (If there is a job called "capologist," I would assume that person is an expert in "capism." Unless the word applies to restaurants that won't serve Batman.) Look no further than the Wizards, a team that drafted John Wall but likely eclipsed its actual draft news by acquiring Kirk Hinrich and the seventeenth pick. In New York, Chicago, Cleveland, Miami, and almost everywhere else, the Hinrich transaction remains a far more pressing affair. Today's mathematics is Hinrich = LeBron + Wade + Bosh + Amare + et al. Yes, Wall's ascent was inevitable, a foregone conclusion that mitigated the news value of the moment. He had been the presumptive top pick since he laid siege to the AAU circuit as a teenager. But he was not the first high-school sensation to attend his own coronation, no matter how circuitous the route there. Nor will he be the last: BRE has likely already begun planning the melancholy farewell to Harrison Barnes that will be staged in Chapel Hill next April. Wall may be divinity bound, but those already godbody have not yet yielded their time.
Rather than contribute to all of this white noise, though, why not take a few moments to reflect on some actual Draft happenings? In many ways, some of which defy conventional measurement, last night was plenty consequential.
Start in Orlando. The institutional skepticism with which this website approaches college basketball has left it mostly bereft of Stanley Robinson coverage. There was yesterday, when Robinson was pegged as the man most likely to blow up the summer league, and there was the time I said that by this November, Sticks would lead the NBA in hopeless athletism. That is, he will be the most hopeless athlete, not the most hopelessly athletic. Those two sentences are the authoritative FreeDarko history of Stanley Robinson. It's pathetic, and it needs to change. Thankfully, the Magic drafted him with the fifty-ninth pick.
Stanley Robinson is the sort of athlete who renews the wonderment of sports. Even in basketball, where the aerial exploits of a high-flying legion have conditioned many fans to take skywalking for granted, Robinson stands out. YouTube does not fully capture his essence, but consider a few moments that should restore your faith in excitement:
Watching Robinson leap is a true spectacle. Though the NBA is already filled with LeBron's muscular drives and Josh Smith's impossible, glowering air show, Stanley is his own man. His form helps to create the distinction. Though he can seamlessly transition from running to flying all the same, Robinson is most effective when jumping off of two feet. When James swoops in from behind or Smith drives and finishes on a man, each does so while already in motion. Robinson, however, will often launch himself with unintended theatrics. Watch the first video closely. Before dunking on the entire Spartan team, Robinson pauses for a half second to elevate off of both feet. He launches himself like a rocket exploding into the air. It happens the entire game against Chattanooga, too. See the pattern? He does this all the time. Pausing to jump off of both feet surely diminishes his effectiveness, but combined with the results, it creates a stylistic signature.
The results, too, are stylish in their own bizarre, enchanting way. Bred by the contrast between reality and potential, Robinson's game seeps volatility and mania. For the entire duration of his UConn career, he was criticized for his bouts of indifference and his intermittent absenteeism. There were times when his way literally forced the hard way. And, to be frank, he can't really play ball so well: his handle is weak, his jumper is spotty. Throughout entire games, he will seem distracted, a step slow and an idea short. But he is a glorious physical force whose laconic demeanor can be replaced easily by authentic enthusiasm, and who talks a good game. Stanley Robinson knows the path, he just doesn't always walk it. Perhaps he just can't.
When he is on, though, in those moments when he forgets his limitations, or remembers what he can be, Robinson is gorgeous. He elevates for a jumper as though the ground were boring him and he needed an extended break. He throws the ball through the rim as though he has done them both a favor. It looks easy for him, not because he's so good at basketball, but because he's such an anomaly that basketball happens to be a sport he can play well. Stanley's long arms, lithe body, and active legs turn him into a defensive wrecking crew, the sort of guy who always seems to overwhelm his man during a pickup game, taking the ball or swallowing the other dude whole. The dunks and blocks are self-evident. The power is awesome, but so, too, is the sense that Robinson has temporarily achieved a tenuous grasp on his raging basketball universe. This calm amid chaos, the leveling of the vicissitudes, is transmitted by the desperate way with which he redirects the ball toward the rim when finishing an alley-oop. He needs to finish the play, lest he surrender his home. It is reflected in blocks that seem less like basketball strategy and more like an outward manifestation of some internal struggle for control. Sticks has a game of yearning...except for the moments when he doesn't. When he is airborne, he finds a pacific competency not always available terrestrially. It's fascinating.
All too perfectly, Robinson's struggle for efficacy and identity will now play out in the gloaming of Vince Carter's career. (Hopefully--Sticks must make the team.) Vince, of course, was a Robinson-like figure at one time, a man whose daring and uncommon acrobatics were startling and exciting. Entering the Draft, Carter had a fuller game than that which Robinson brings with him to Orlando, but each left college for the NBA across a bridge built by outsized athleticism.
Since arriving as the fantastically gifted and fatally flawed mantle bearer of a post-Jordan generation, Vince has fought demons similar to those which confront Robinson. We can disagree, but I always found that the central conflict in Vince Carter's career was whether he actually wanted to play basketball. Was he a basketball player with tremendous athleticism, or was he a tremendous athlete who happened to play basketball because that was the best way to maximize his body? In Vince's mean-mugging, in his self-conscious fadeaways, in his dramatic injuries, in his conflicted persona, I always saw ambivalence. The hollow, insincere manner with which he would attempt to portray hero and villain at various times betrayed his disaffection. Vince Carter is a likeable, thoughtful, fairly serene guy whose most productive years were spent acting as just the opposite, and I always got the sense that basketball was merely something to do.
Vince's career narrative has the tinge of tragedy because he hasn't achieved the basketball success to which his natural talent would perhaps entitle him. However, that gloomy feeling quickly recedes if Carter is cast not as a basketball lifer who bleeds orange, but instead as a more passive observer who inadvertently came to star in a serendipitous story. For Vince, it was always easy, a path of least resistance. That is a gross oversimplification that enjoys a liberal creative license, but there is an underlying truth. A truth illustrated by Carter's steady decline into irrelevance and horrible playoff campaign this past season. The coda of his career does not sound as though Vince's heart were ever in it. As a result, memories of the visceral excitement which VC once encouraged are tempered by the contemporary suspicion that it was a charade to some extent. He stuffed his arm through that rim and he did those reverse 360s, but none of that was ever really in the service of the game. It was in the service of his own athleticism; dunking was masturbatory in some way. Whether we begrudge Vince his indulgences is another topic, but recognizing them does alter his basketball legacy.
We don't yet know who Stanley Robinson will be, but it is impossible to not root for him. His fantastic leaping is a rare gift (to say nothing of its intrinsic FD qualities). Seeing him jump, alone, can be breathtaking. We just need to hope that he turns out to be either more of a basketball player than Vince ever was or someone who can act at least half as well. Perversely, he will be working with an ideal mentor.
The other bit of overlooked manifest destiny from the Draft was Devin Ebanks arriving in Los Angeles. In the FD mock, we had Ebanks in Minnesota so that Rambis could reclaim OG Laker status by replicating the formula which Los Angeles has used to conjure two straight titles. Fate one-upped this prognostication by delivering a mercurial, itinerant Queens man whose offense comes and goes to the team that already has two of them. Or, if you'd prefer a story that replaces fate with something approaching irony, what about this: Ebanks, a rangy collection of knees and elbows who plays effective wing defense and has a variety of skills but no one exceptional ability, arrives in Los Angeles to back up Ron Artest, the man who replaced Trevor Ariza. Ariza, of course, was the rangy collection of knees and elbows who played effective wing defense and had a variety of skills but no one exceptional ability. In 2011, the Lakers will likely draft a bear and let Ebanks become a Rocket.
One also should likely see fate in Boston drafting Luke Harangody, college basketball's reigning Great White Hype. After a postseason in which the all-black Celtics gave Scalabrine limited burn and lost once it ran out of big men, drafting a burly white guy from Notre Dame made sense. Luck of the Irish, right?
Here, it's me talking nonsense about the NBA Draft for 3,000 words. Unlike in the past when I've done this for Deadspin, I went back and cleaned it up, added stuff, etc. Somehow, most of the changes and fattening happened further down in the log. This is actually much like those old edited FD chats we'd run the next day. But it's just me. No, that wasn't an invitation to argue about the past.
My biggest draft night neurosis: My in ability to remember having seen Kevin Seraphin play. Apparently I saw him do stuff like this for twenty minutes. Go to 2:35 in for a taste.
I am chalking it up to a "thou shall have no gods but John Wall" weekend. That's Wall getting swatted by Seraphin, by the way.
Still trying to figure out the Wall narrative. He certainly has godhead potential, and indeed we all tried to bestow it upon him coming out of high school. But the Kentucky experience both loosened him up and hardened him in important ways. We also can't underestimate the effect that Eric Prisbell's WaPo piece had on the way he's seen. You've heard of a hijacked news cycle? This was mythology handed important texts at the deadline.
I think someone called him "Sir John" last night. That strikes me as strangely apt. Wouldn't instant divinity also mean arrested adolescence? Or, if there were maturity there, it wouldn't exactly feel earned. Wall may be working his way up to the otherworldly -- an odd thought, but in keeping with the humility and depth that, as much as the dunks, are becoming part of his star-making narrative.
Anyway, I am fairly dead, but wanted to make sure you didn't miss my draft commentary. Just for kicks, major FD potential for Wall (duh), Johnson (mixed on there), Cousins (as parable), Monroe (I expect some heady new discoveries), Aminu (just getting started), Paul George (be thine own wings), Patterson (that soccer quirk), Sanders (supreme FD), Whiteside (the ADD kid), Devin Ebanks (show 'em something!), Tiny Gallon (FD loves fat dudes), Willie Warren (for a year ago), Stanley Robinson (will MURDER in summer leagues). Factor in the positional flux of so many guys, and I think you see why I was so turned on by this draft. This wasn't the big man draft, some inverted sequel to 2009. No, as Ziller pointed out, this was an attempt death-knell for position.
His exact words: "Again, positions are stupid. You need some big dudes and some dudes who can handle the ball, and they all need to compliment each other based on what you're trying to do. Draft accordingly."
Time will tell if its repercussions turn out to be shock waves or mere inconveniences. And just maybe, it's a sign of what was already in the air.
OOPS: Left off Avery Bradley. A him and Rondo backcourt makes no common sense, but has space gargoyle potential that it breaks my teeth to even consider.
Perspire all over the FreeDrafto mock. Go behind the scenes of DeMarcus Cousins getting clothes, and feel his fun. Know that I suffer. Just finished a column that didn't turn out like I wanted it to, and a movie (Fallen Angel) that left me with nothing but a crush on a flimsy character.
But fashion beckons, fashion waits for no man, and it's my favorite time of year: time to critique these draft portraits, sun.
There are actually a lot of white people in this draft, but Aldrich is the one who is so white no one wants to talk about him. Good thing he's embraced that, wearing a vest made from an heirloom kilt. That it's a fitted vest really takes this look into OWN IT territory. Who wore fitted vests, ever, except for, like, the Crusaders? Love the use of ears as an accessory.
Seriously, what the fuck am I supposed to say about this? He looks like Venom ate Urkel and decided to invite you to his house, which is either inside a pumpkin or on Mars. Actually, when I see it spelled out like that, I think they really nailed Aminu. Mostly the clothes are a prop—"look how fucking strange I can act while dressed by a stylist." Except one thing stands out: why would they put him in what looks like Keens? So he wouldn't slip in his pumpkin? I should end this on a positive note: I always say, if you only get your pants tailored in one place, make it the kneecaps.
If the goal of this outfit was to make DeMarcus Cousins look like my father, a sixty-two year-old academic, it succeeds. The equation of dribbling with sensitive and intelligent is pretty clever, too. There's definitely a gay Mr. Potato head quality to this photo, but at the same time, you can tell that Cousins is enjoying himself. And yeah, there's some shock value there. That alone makes this a winning photo.
Luke Babbitt sort of seems like he got the same direction Aminu did, maybe, "pretend you just opened the door for some kids trick-or-treating." Except in Luke's case, I just think he's telling me the cautionary tale of Frankenstein. Cautionary because you should hope you never get dug up and stuck on a reanimated monster because you might somehow be award of what's going on. Clothes would like great on Frankenstein, but basically just say "I can't do any more coke tonight, I'm applying to law school next spring."
And yes, shit for face, I know Frankenstein is actually the scientist. Who would you rather have a funny-sounding name go with, a mad scientist or a monster?
No, Ed Davis. You're not trick or treating, you're the adult on the other side of the door. See, this is why he's a shitty pick. Oh, and this is the kind of sweater I see in pictures of me when I was six, and have to stop myself from asking my mother if it's in the attic somewhere because I'd like to have it now. I detect a slight hint of a gigantic sheriff's star belt. I don't think it's there, but that would be the weirdest thing in the world. Maybe they had to bribe him into posing.
Someone should get fired for this one. That's like the worst cut of dress shirt to not tuck in. Way to show your maturity, Favors. At least you kind of look like Jay Williams, which means we have to find this shot endearing. Oh, and I'd advise leaving Aminu's pumpkin before he gets back and finds you. I hear he's saving up dead birds to play with.
Those pants are way too shiny. It kind of looks like he really wishes he were a judge, but instead got stuck on Broadway.
Did you know that was Paul George? I still don't.
This Gordon Hayward outfit was brought to you by Buffalo Exchange. And not a good one.
No one is even fucking with Wes Johnson, and not for best dressed, either. Pee Wee Herman + Dick Tracy + Willy Loman. And those shoes are slick enough to show he's in on the joke. I have major reservations about him greeting kids on Halloween like this because 1) he looks kind of scary 2) his penis is plainly outlined. But whatever. Somehow, Johnson looks really young in that weird Pee Wee way, which isn't good for the sake of greeting children, but reminds you that twenty-two is not old AT ALL. That said, you don't get that sense of humor from playing one year of college ball. You need to see at least one improv group performance.
I would like to know if the ball is coming or going, and what that represents. Or if it's a demonstration from a show about time travel.
Greg Monroe wants you to know that he is all grown up. And that if this basketball thing doesn't work out, he'll walk across the street and get a job training motivational speakers. Sometimes, looking normal is the best way for a pro athlete to make you realize how much more important he is than you.
First of all, Patrick Patterson, look in the mirror after you piss and pull your pants up. Secondly, you look like you're trying on clothes from two years ago you might get rid of. That or it's some recent immigrant group I can't quote put my finger on. Strangely, a reasonable chain would've made a lot of sense here.
Blah blah blah, I'm Evan Turner, I'm the second pick in the draft, I'm in Aminu's pumpkin but it's really just an orange background to represent basketball. They showed me Adam Morrison's outfit from 2006 to try and loosen me up, but i thought they were telling me to change. So I did. It was okay. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to punch myself in the nuts, or maybe the gut, and miss.
This is a really scary photo.
I doubt he picked the J. It's a little busy; I know he couldn't have gone full white on white, or else people might have thought it was a reference to that Nike ad where Chris Paul and everyone else plays in a hangar with those astronaut warm-ups. I really like the pants, the tie and shirt are okay, they just should have gone with a simpler cardigan. The more I like at the tie/shirt, the more new wave they're starting to look. Or cruise ship waiter. Whatever. We all know Wall can rock a tux with authority from those Derby pictures. Would like to know what shoes he's wearing.
This outfit actually looks better in some other shots where he's got his somber face. But I like that this is an action-formal pose (who the fuck thought of that) where Wall looks like he might actually drive to the basket at any moment, while at the same time kind of having fun with the absurdity of the pose. It's like he can't help himself on either count. Good signs, no?
FreeDrafto Eats Bugs: 2010 Mock Drafting Position Paper
This one is all-human, all the time, but it's so much more necessary than the one with lizard birds. No one knows where this draft is headed. You heard Clinton say it this morning: When the war has left all peoples dirty and confused, it's time to look skyward. So we did, and this mock revealed itself. Participants: Eric Freeman (Ty Keenan), Brown Recluse, Esq., Tom Ziller, and myself (Shoals)....with a special cameo appearance from Joey!
1. Wizards- John Wall
It is not without reservations that the Wizards make this selection. The only other time two prospects as hugely-hyped as Wall and Strasburg showed up in the same market this close together? That would be Ewing and Gooden in New York. The last time our nation's capitol welcomed one? I'm thinking Barack Hussein Obama. The Wiz are getting either the NBA's answer to Doc Gooden or the sport's very own terrorist Jimmy Carter. Throw a returning Gilbert Arenas into the mix, and you can see how tragic downfall is practically in the cards here. Good thing Washington is also an Illuminati hot spot, and Wall (along with pal LeBron and Z.O.G.-ster Drake) a card-carrying member, so some conspiracy of other will make sure things go the right way. (BS)
2. Sixers - Derrick Favors
Here are Marreese Speights's stats for his last five games in 2010.
4 points, 2 rebounds, 0 blocks
4 points, 5 rebounds, 1 block
22 points, 5 rebounds, 1 block
4 points, 1 rebound, 0 blocks
23 points, 8 rebounds, 2 blocks
This is not what is typically considered consistent post play. Elton Brand may be fully healthy again, but he turns 32 during next season. Spencer Hawes is not the answer. With Idguodala and Thad Young on the wing, there's just not a huge need for Evan Turner. I know you don't draft for need at the #2 spot, but Favors is looking like one of the best young post players to come along in the past decade. Not even Doug Collins could screw this up. (BRE) 3. Nets - Evan Turner
Thorn figures that Devin Harris can vacillate between boring and All-Star from night to night, he needs a constant firebrand in the backcourt with him. When Harris is on, it's time for the Nets to milk him for the win. When Harris is asleep, let Turner try to make magic. It won't always work -- conflagrations are always one breeze away from out-of-control -- but it's a better chance than, say, Courtney Lee gave them. (TZ)
4. Timberwolves - Al-Farouq Aminu
Yes, I know, point guards, David Kahn, Ricky Rubio, insanity all around. But while last year's draft focused on a single position, Kahn's real m.o. has been to take supposedly nice guys and antagonize them to the point of hostility. Enter Aminu, an enigmatic scorer whose Twitter account depicts him as a misogynistic jerk whose idea of a confession involves telling people he likes to draw. He is difficult to handle both on and off the court, for friend and foe alike. He's the opposite of Minnesota Nice and the perfect expression of Kahn's id. (EF)
5. Kings - DeMarcus Cousins
With the trade for Samuel Dalembert and several other big men already in town, the Kings can take Cousins and let him ease into a starring role while not carrying the weight of a downtrodden franchise's expectations. But enough about basketball -- the real story here is off the court. Unbeknownst to most, Sean May, Donte Greene, and Jason Thompson have created the league's preeminent comedy trio, a basketball version of the Three Stooges where most of the jokes involving saying "pause" and making silly viral videos. Cousins isn't the funniest man around, but the Sacramento trio can teach him a few things about lightening up and taking things in stride. That might not seem like the best thing for someone with a reputation for not taking his conditioning seriously, but there's no proof that being silly in the locker room carries over to the hardwood. This light atmosphere could be just what Cousins needs. (EF)
6. Warriors - Latavious Williams
Kelenna Azubuike-Reggie Williams-Latavious Williams, the Holy D-League Trinity! Latavious has more pro experience than any rookie but the Kentucky products, and it'll show as Williams runs out to a brief lead in the R.O.Y. horse race. The real clincher is that last year, Larry Riley learned you can draft a player who is both productive and sane. While Latavious might be a slight stretch at No. 6, the Warriors can't be too sure about the other prospects on the board in terms of friendliness. There are no Corey Brewers left in 2010. (TZ)
7. Pistons - Avery Bradley
A 6'3" defensive minded combo guard who can score when he needs to? Sound like anyone we know? All players turned executives are narcissists, and that includes even the stoic Joe D. He will not be able to pass up the opportunity to draft a player who seems practically molded in his image, even though the Pistons do need a big man more than they need another guard. Pairing Bradley with Rodney Stuckey would give the Pistons a versatile backcourt with two players who can handle, pass, score, and play defense. It's really too bad they paid Ben Gordon all that money last year.... (BRE)
8. Clippers - Eric Bledsoe
Outside of Wall, this draft belongs to big men, or small forwards who play like big men, or big men who probably will end up small forwards, or centers we keep forgetting to call that. It's all just too weird. How about a good old-fashioned run on tweener guards to settle our collective stomach? Bledsoe came to Kentucky a point guard before Wall intervened, so it's not like he's coming for Eric Gordon's position. That dude was in last year's televised Dunk-In. He's as good as gold. If Bledsoe can revive his PG chops, then maybe Baron Davis's annual injury will come a little early this year, the Clips will be starting Bledsoe, Gordon, Outlaw, Griffin, and Kaman. They'll be printing up "Eric Squared: Mathematically Aware" shirts, become the new Warriors (with Baron transitioning to assistant coach), the new old Clippers, and best of all, enter the summer with room for eight max deals that will never happen. (BS)
9. Jazz - Patrick Patterson
I want someone to tell me why Patterson doesn't garner David West comparisons, or why I can't stop thinking that he, not Deval Patrick, is the son of a longtime Arkestra member. Sloan in his old age has taken to seeing double in the post, and before Pat Pat got his range on, he was more Millsap than Boozer. Now imagine twin Millsaps, just with one of them gone to finishing school, stretching the floor more than Carlos ever could, and having played babysitter already for a young O.J. Mayo and DeMarcus Cousins. Boozer and his back tattoo can burn in Miami like he never happened. Best of all, there's a great Nike web ad waiting to be made that brings in the other great Pat Pattersons: the legendary fast-bowler, the Canadian wrestler, some baseball player, and a duo of Southern pols. (BS)
10. Pacers - Gordon Hayward
The Pacers are on a quest to become a bizarro version of the '07 Hawks, with the same mix of versatile 6'9" guys, given a generous coat of whitewash. Throw Granger, Dunleavy, Jr., and Hayward out on the court together, and distinctions among positions melt away. Who's the small forward, who's the shooting guard? Who cares? We're playing basketball here, guys! It goes without saying that Hayward's a hometown hero straight out of Hoosiers, and he should have the opposite effect on Indy ticket sales than Stephen Jackson did. (BRE)
11. Hornets - Ryan Richards
It's little known that British Petroleum has taken over the Hornets front office to go with the rest of Gulf Coast, or is at least that team's best hope for financial solvency next season and thus has a seat at the table. The United Kingdom needs some rollicking good press to get a berth in the 2012 Olympic tournament in London, and Chris Paul is the ticket. Richards hails from Britain and could be the next springy forward to throw down a succession of CP3's alley-oops. Of course, 10 or 20 forwards and centers on the board could do it better than Richards, who is more a Channing Frye than a Tyson Chandler. But that's why BP took over! If you want something done in a very specific but wrong way, you've got to do it yourself. (TZ)
12. Grizzlies - Ekpe Udoh
Pity the Memphis frontcourt. Marc Gasol, in all his burly bearness, has become one of the most promising young centers in the league, but no one knows just how good he is because the Grizzlies often didn't even registered on League Pass this year. Zach Randolph made an All-Star team, and now all people can talk about is the fact that he's a major marijuana kingpin in Indianapolis, which is at least a better option in a dull city than meth. What they and the rest of the team need is a live wire, someone who can attract attention even as he doesn't necessarily steal minutes. Udoh, a shot-blocker extraordinaire with less-than-graceful offensive skills, can be exactly that. (EF)
13. Raptors - Ed Davis
It is commonly accepted these days that Chris Bosh will not play in Toronto next season. As such, the Raptors may feel the need to try to replace him in this draft, even though you can't find a player of this caliber at No. 13. Unfortunately for Toronto, Ed Davis has too much in common with Bosh for them to pass him up. He's tall, thin, and left-handed, all things that helped define Bosh. Of course, he was also a notorious underachiever at North Carolina who's almost all hype and possibly even less polished than Brandan Wright, the Tar Heels' last supposed Bosh clone. I don't expect a team to pass up on the spitting image of their last franchise player. So let Davis stand as a lesson to any team who is tempted by these similarities in the future. The past is no safe place to dwell. (EF)
14. Rockets - Luke Harangody
Harangody's stats are off the charts, and Houston's never been afraid of an undersized player. Big-school talisman has never been Morey's M.O., but you need to push back against the myth now and then just to keep the myth growing. Or in other words, if Morey always picked a guard like Aaron Brooks or an ironic athlete like Chase Budinger, observers would start expecting the GM to always look to cull players who have fallen too far. Harangody is the exact opposite. It's like reaching up into the clouds and coming down with a handful of quartz. (TZ)
15. Bucks - Luke Babbitt
If Luke Babbitt hasn't read the satirical Sinclair Lewis novel that bears his name, he better get started. Even though it was written almost a century ago, it'll give Young Luke a good idea of where he's headed in Milwaukee. Middle of America, middle of the Eastern Conference, middle of the first round of the draft. On the court, the Bucks badly need a scoring forward, and Babbitt's one of the best available. He would be a big upgrade on Carlos Delfino or Luc Mbah a Moute, and he's certainly a more dynamic scorer. Plus, it would give Luke Ridnour another guy named Luke to hang out with. (BRE)
16. Timberwolves - Xavier Henry
The Triangle needs shooters and post passers to live. Rambis refuses to acknowledge the existence of Kevin Love. No one else on the team fits either of these bills. Ergo, Henry is the new franchise player. (BS)
17. Bulls - Greg Monroe
Chicago would love to see Monroe fall this far, especially when he's projected to go as high as fifth. I like the nickname "Quiet Storm" for this guy, and he'll go well with Joakim "Act a Fool" Noah up front. And, since Rose can't move the ball for shit, it'll help tremendously to get a big man with Monroe's playmaking abilities. The best part, though, is that finally this "LeBron should go to Chicago, it's not a blank slate, there's talent there" argument isn't the stupidest thing in the world or dependent on blind faith in Taj Gibson. Did you hear that, writers, pundits, columnists who look weird with full bodies, website and billboard proprietors, and robots designed to do laundry? THE BULLS WILL HAVE A YOUNG NUCLEUS. Monroe must go to Chicago, so that these past ills will be repaired, and a large percentage of people into basketball can, at least to history, not have appeared to have been totally fucking stupid. (BS)
18. Heat - Wesley Johnson
The slide of the draft! Johnson immediately becomes a factor in the 2010 free agent wars, giving Wade his much-needed running mate on the wing, the Pippen to his Jordan. Game-wise, Johnson is probably closer to Shawn Marion than Pippen, with his superior athleticism and strong rebounding from the wing position. He's clearly one of the best all-around talents in the draft and with four years (including the redshirt year) of college ball under his belt, also one of the most experienced. Truth be told, that's probably why he slid this far. At almost 23 years of age, Johnson is more than a year older than Kevin Durant and Derrick Rose and four years older than Derrick Favors. (BRE)
19. Celtics - Hassan Whiteside
The word on Hassan is that he's not terribly bright. As soon as Ray Allen leaves in free agency, the remaining stars of the Celtics will have a similar stigma attached. You can be brilliant on the court but light in the pocket protector, and the success of Garnett, Perkins and Rondo speaks to that. Is that a reason for Danny Ainge to take a chance on Whiteside? If not, his disarming sartorial taste is. (TZ)
20. Spurs - Tibor Pleiss
The idea of the Spurs taking a foreign guy no one's heard of is a cliche at this point, but this time there's a purpose beyond getting a solid player. Anyone who watched the Spurs this year saw an old team getting by on the strength of their dwindling talent and good old-fashioned veteran know-how. The mystique is fading, and when that happens, sometimes you have to resort to smoke and mirrors. Pleiss is an odd prospect who probably shouldn't even be in the draft -- he's only been a contributor for about a year and is a strong rebounder still more renowned for his mobility and 7-0 height. But his on-court skills are honestly insignificant to this pick. When R.C. Buford picks Pleiss, he'll make it clear that these are the same Spurs up to their old tricks. If you refuse to acknowledge the decline, it does not exist. (EF)
21. Thunder - Larry Sanders
Behold, the man whose launched a thousand internet jokes. There's the HBO show of the same name, still the best comedy the channel has ever produced, and even Larry Saunders, obscure 70s soul singer. Sanders is sure to be a hit all over the blogs, so there's no better team for him to join than the favorite squad of everyone who ever bought a ticket for Blogs with Balls. It's a match made in heaven. Hey now! (EF)
22. Trailblazers - Sylven Landesburg
Kevin Pritchard needs one last chest-beating "conquest" on his way out, so he takes Landesburg, an American-born kid who played at Virginia but still can be a Euro stash for a year or two, thanks to an Israeli passort. You'd expect Pritchard, with a pretty full roster, to pick a cat like Kevin Seraphin. But Landesburg is more of a sleeper, and thus a victory for the legacy of the Pritchslap. (TZ)
23. Timberwolves - Devin Ebanks
The Lakers won a title with two enigmatic, frustrating, captivating heart-breakers from Queens, and that's the model Rambis is working off of. So naturally, he take Ebanks. (Joey) 24. Hawks - Paul George
His name isn't real. The man is barely real. You cannot find him with Google or telepathy. What kind of real human being grows up a Clippers fan, unless they're Andre Miller, who has spent his whole life auditioning for the role of animated sitcom? This is some Bourne Identity shit, and between now and the time you finish this sentence, George may very well have jumped up into the number two spot, impregnated the owner of that team's wife, and fallen back here for that. Oh, and he's long, athletic, multi-skilled, and either lazy, homey, laidback, or hard to read. He's in the fine tradition of Joe Johnson, whom he'll replace, and maybe even the rightful heir to T-Mac's "wolf in a rocking chair" fury of those first great Orlando years. But this too, might be a disguise. Paul George might be standing behind you as you read this, having needed just . . . one . . . more . . . sentence on here to load the dart gun and carry out his latest secret contract killing. Possible marketing campaign: Something Beatles-related that costs $75 million to license. (BS)
25. Grizzlies - Damion James
When I was at a UT game last season, I was stunned to find out that Damion Jones was still at Austin. No, I don't watch college ball, and I didn't stick around that university to finish my PhD. Fuck you, it's a touchy subject. This should have made me feel young, but instead, it made me feel really old. That's a good look for the Grizzlies. See, watch: This is going to be O.J. Mayo's third season in the league? Aren't you surprised? Don't you respect him more? Don't you feel worse about yourself, and thus less likely to trash the Grizz, more ready to give them their due? Jones is more than a big man. He's a talisman. (BS) 26. Thunder - Kevin Seraphin
In the Old Testament, a seraphim is an angel who protects the throne of God. Now, I'm not saying that Durant is God, but then again, I'm not saying he isn't. At any rate, he does need some protecting. As was painfully obvious during their series with the Lakers, the Thunder need more big bodies in the post. With Sanders at #21, they got length and with this pick they get bulk. At 6'9", 265 lbs, Seraphim is physically ready to get in an NBA game and bang some bodies right now. Oklahoma City might actually be the ideal place for Seraphin, since the team already has two French speakers of African descent in Thabo Sefolosha and Serge Ibaka. And I hear that Durant is a really friendly guy. (BRE) 27. Nets - Lance Stephenson
The Nets need a NYC-bred star on their roster before the move to Brooklyn, so the powers that be are willing to overlook that Stephenson is a walking ellipsis who may never start an NBA game, let alone an NBA All-Star Game. Whatever, at least Stephenson has a fellow (albeit vastly more skilled) traveller in Terrence Williams, and I have a suspicion Stephenson can chop it up with Yi Jianlian for days. Similar lives, Lance and Yi. (TZ) 28. Grizzlies - Elliot Williams
Williams is one of many prospects -- including No. 12 pick Ekpe Udoh -- to reject a workout offer in Memphis. I honestly have no idea why this is the case; they're not the most attractive team in the league, certainly, but prospects don't continually turn down invitations from the Clippers or Warriors. Williams was the oddest holdout considering that he's by no means a first-round lock and played his college ball for the Memphis Tigers. This is patently ridiculous, and he's the perfect target for the Grizzlies to take a stand, draft him, and show all future prospects that their pre-draft decisions are inconsequential. Take that, asshole. Now enjoy the end of the bench and your frequent guest spots on that Jason Lee cop show. (EF)
29. Magic - Cole Aldrich
Aldrich needs to go to Orlando for two reasons. First, he can act as the perfect straight man to Dwight Howard, who has had a difficult time playing off Marcin Gortat's arsenal of Polish jokes (he's reclaiming them!). Never fear with Aldrich, because his humor consists of pushing bagel dogs in and out of the bread and listening to old Jerky Boys cassettes. Oh, and he is also mute. Elsewhere, Aldrich will help fix the team's big man logjam by often being mistaken for Gortat. That way, whenever one of them enters the game, half the crowd will assume it's the other, creating a situation in which half the fanbase will think each gets regular minutes. It's a plan with the opportunity for zany misunderstandings and classic hijinx. It'll be the perfect inspiration for Dwight's first starring role in direct-to-DVD film. (EF) 30. Wizards - Daniel Orton
Wall would love to take Cousins to D.C. with him, but Orton will have to do. For the Wizards front office, it's just a rouse to make Andray Blatche look motivated by comparison. Little do they know it will backfire when Orton invokes the Myth of the Next DeAndre Jordan and dunks everything within six feet of the rim. (TZ)
If you're like me, you spent Tuesday afternoon dancing in the rain to Young Jeezy records with DeMarcus Cousins. If you're not, then you didn't, and you missed something tender.
In he strode, a man seven feet if he was an inch. In, too, strode his mother, his handlers, some handlers of the handlers, some random white women who seemed to be daughters and other familial relations of the handlers, and a phalanx of press people trying to get a handle on who was to handle which handler. ESPN was there, too. Of course. Diddy was not. Diddy was late, and the Diddy handler got on the Diddy phone to find out where the Diddy was. He wasn't picking up. Just how important was this athlete event to Diddy if he couldn't be reached? Wait a minute--why was Diddy even involved with athletes in the first place? The consensus landed on "competes for the same women."
On an otherwise sunny day, this storm had gathered suddenly, and it quickly washed away anything that wasn't tied down or cordoned off. The Italian man escorted by his mother and his girlfriend anxiously looked on before running his hand across a linen button up and bolting. In that moment, his hand streaked across the neatly folded crease as his mind arrived at the conclusion that more shopping wouldn't be worth the discomfort. How was he going to get at those summer suits while the storm consumed the one corner where he needed to be? Which salesperson would even notice him? Surely not the Fonzworth-looking motherfucker in his striped pink shirt and paisley bow tie who had drafted in the storm's wake before emerging on the other side to start measuring and accessorizing. Neither would the store manager, her costume chains hanging from her neck as she hung onto the big man, never leaving his side. It was a minor maelstrom; don't be fooled by the soothing wood paneling or the oppressive gentility of acting all bourgie.
Like any volatile summer weather, the storm subsided as quickly as it had swelled. The big man disappeared behind a mirror, the handlers went with him, the white girls got comfortable on the couches, the Diddy to-do was laid to rest with a few key strokes, and suddenly, all that remained were press folks staring at each other, muted Diddy videos on the big screen, and a steady soundtrack of Jeezy, Wayne, and Gucci. The calm came after the storm.
There is a fine line between knowing humor and mocking insult. Almost anything worth joking about forces the distinction upon us, and the NBA Draft may be sport's Aristocrats. For years, the NBA cognescenti have annually celebrated the draft's earnest appeal while also reveling in its absurd pathologies. Forecasting the picks and mocking the fashion are pretty much neck and neck. In fact, Draft analysis has taken on its own, sadly meta form of this comedic duality: for as much fun as we have speculating about how the Timberwolves will be reconfigured, there is almost as much fun generating hysteria for its own sake. The cheering and jeering easily intermingle.
For at least one day, Tuesday was meant to tip the scales back in favor of the earnest. Tired of lame jokes about Chopper suits and sensing the opportunity to facilitate good, wholesome, old-fashioned American opulence, an events company had organized a proper suiting event at the Sean John store on Fifth Avenue in New York. The premise was simple: this year's top picks would come to the House of Diddy, where they would be fitted for a sensible, well-tailored suit to be worn on Draft night. After selecting their pinstripes and matching their ties, the players would then be led through a small flea market of luxury retailers. The players could learn about Hommage shaving kits, Maserati sports cars, Mohegan Sun gambling packages, and Steinway Lyngdorf entertainment systems. The companies participating in the event could hope to earn some new customers.
Now you know why there was an emphasis placed on the word "meant" in the preceding paragraph. Reclaiming the Draft's attendant culture from the comedians who never tire of the sometimes ugly class- and race-tinged humor is an admirable intention. Doing so by asking the players to buy Sean John suits and listen to pitches for $200,000 stereo equipment belies some miscalculation in execution. I have no doubt that Evan Turner may truly want a 105" plasma television on a yacht with hidden surround-sound speakers. However, the absurdity of the entire premise--look at these average Joes buying average suits...and fantastically unobtainable everything else--is inescapable for anyone who will never be transformed into a multimillionaire overnight. Without graduating from college. Before ever reporting to work. Or even turning twenty-one.
And yet, there was dancing.
Lost amid the imposing size of the seven-footer, one DeMarcus Cousins, and the island-nation population that follows him is the disarming realization that DeMarcus Cousins is only a nineteen-year-old. As his giant right hand swallows yours in a handshake; as his stoic expression makes you wonder if the not-so-quiet whisper campaign about his attitude has some merit; as his sheepish posture while ambling around the store suggests that he may not be ready for what awaits him, you realize that this still is a kid. Not even the most thoughtful, measured, detailed Draft analysis serves as an adequate substitute for meeting the players, for seeing them in person.
The mere nature of reading about a Cousins or a John Wall on a blog, to say nothing of The New York Times' website, removes a player from everyday experience and elevates him as a celebrity. In turn, he is dehumanized ever so slightly. They all are. The process is only exacerbated as Draft conversations steal these children from our everyday vocabulary and insert them into the nonce lexicon of the NBA. No one describes his friends as long, questions a coworker for his sticktoittiveness, or wishes that his dad were more coachable. And similarly, no one ever says that DeMarcus Cousins has an innocent smile or is incredibly polite.
He does, and he is, though. That, ultimately, was what stood out most in the Sean John store, and it redeemed an event that couldn't help itself. (The players arrived in courtesy Maseratis.) Had Cousins picked an eight-button suit, it wouldn't have made a difference. Especially not when he stole a moment to dance as the handlers were buzzing about. As so many people got worked up over who was on the door, whether the lighting was OK, and if there was another floor model of the blue-and-cream tie, "Put On" blared over the speakers and DeMarcus started dancing. So did I. I instantly recalled watching the man John Walling, and seeing him celebrate his impossible put-back against Mississippi State. The self-seriousness of adulthood that was captured by all those busybodies, the conspicuous consumption that seems to motivate the Sean John brand--it all stopped as Cousins had a truly earnest moment. The good outweighed the bad for a little bit.
For our continuing FreeDeMarco coverage, check out the serious work Shoals has been putting in over at the FanHouse.
Ethan Sherwood Strauss is writer and editor at Salon.com. He's been sitting on this for a year now.
This was written one year ago, immediately after I got home from the 2009 NBA Draft. The NBA had assigned me as evening escort to the No. 5 pick, a strictly non-sexual job despite its euphemistic ring. My duty was to whisk Ricky Rubio from the draft couch and through the media gauntlet. I began this task immediately after the Timberwolves selected Johnny Flynn.
A possibly shaken Rubio greets me.
“Hi, nice to eh, meet you.”
We both have weak handshakes. I instruct him to follow me past a horde of Madison Square Garden hooligans.
The MSG crowd is hooting, throwing drunken energy at the Spaniard. They appear threatening but the shouting is complimentary. I had attended Steve Nash’s charity soccer game the day before. A beaming Chris Bosh got draped in ceaseless “Play for the Knicks!” entreaties. The chants carried a streak of desperation steeped in a sense of entitlement. We need you and it must happen because we want it and because we’re us.
“We NEED you, Ricky! Please, come to New York! You HAVE to play for the Knicks!”
(This is the most important moment of his life? It looks like a fucking zombie movie.)
I lead Rubio through the theater lobby as the creepy adoration follows. Ricky has been drafted by a non-Knicks team—and he’s getting away. Fans grope and grab like horny, depraved barflies. Young girls scream in Rubio’s face. All I can see are arms and faces. All I can hear is animalistic bleating. It could be projection but Ricky looks frightened and young. I’ve read a lot about how an 18-year-old LeBron looked beyond his years. Rubio makes me feel old, and I’m 23.
The security guards disintegrate upon our arrival in the media area. Rubio and I file into the secure bowels of the Garden, accompanied by his translator.There are cameras flashing and the space-to-person ratio is miniscule. There are no drunken shouters, but the effect is just as disorienting. It’s a bit like someone set up a strobe light in a cramped subway station. I shuttle el Rubio and el translator from media box to media box, leading to the “Live Shot area” clusterfuck. CBS, ABC, and NBC are the can’t-miss booths, but all are sort of mandatory. In between, anemic media entities try to beg their way into boothless peasant interviews. It’s a good day for human dignity
“They drafted ANOTHER point guard!” Rubio exclaims in disbelief. He speaks little English and rarely talks, even to his translator. But I hear this refrain throughout the night.
“They drafted ANOTHER point guard? Why?” Rubio’s grappling with where his life is heading as mics are shoved against his jaw. As I push Rubio through the Live Shot Area, his dissatisfaction becomes obvious. He looks tired, gaunt. Especially when you contrast his mood with that of Hasheem Thabeet, who bounds across the room and gives me a hug. Everyone’s getting a piece of Thabeet, even the nervous kid with the sweaty suit. I try to cheer Rubio up.
“I hear people in the Midwest are very nice!”
Another NBA worker chimes in.
“I’m from the Midwest…I’m nice!”
Rubio smiles shyly, but doesn’t seem convinced. His rebuttal trumps all.
“I hear eets, eh, very cold.”
Athletes by reputation, are not interesting people.There are obvious attributions for the blandness.Yes, they are hoisted on a conveyer belt during their formative years.Yes, they are taught sports in place of books. But interactions with the press condition athletes to be lame.The same fucking questions.The same fucking answers.What could be more numbing to the personality than engaging in thousands of ersatz conversations? It would be better if the athletes were supposed to volley questions, but we’ll never know.
And it's one thing to understand that a press junket process is repetitive, but it’s another to participate. My participation is peripheral, thank God. We’re at interview six and Rubio is wilting. He keeps prodding his translator to ask when the session will end. I keep apologetically forcing Ricky Rubio through more bullshit.
“Just a few more…just a few more, please.”
We slog forward, walking into a hallway. Johnny Flynn is seated, crying into his cell phone.
"We did it! We...did it!"
Flynn has reached an elated state that I can only dream of, or drug-induce. A dyspeptic Rubio walks right past his new teammate.
New Knick pick Jordan Hill arrives. Hill is alone for the moment, holding a Knicks jersey that’s been dragging along the floor all evening. Since I’m wearing a headset, and therefore must have psychic powers, Hill inquires about whom the Phoenix Suns drafted.
“Um, well, I don’t know.”
(Dude, you’re holding a Blackberry.)
I stare at his feet, and dumbly compliment Jordan’s fancy gator shoes.
“Those are…um, awesome shoes…man.”
My voice trembles and I forget to add “No homo,” as required for proper NYC colloquial complimentary parlance. Hill nervously smiles and laughs.
We trudge down to the “phone room.” This is not a booth, but an isolated, actual room, replete with catered food. There are a few tables with land line phones. Lottery picks are merrily calling their new teams. Griffin, Thabeet, Harden, every high pick is there to use Auerbach-era technology. The only other people in the spot are the exhausted looking escorts and some scattered NBA workers. And Rubio’s translator is there. And he’s getting royally pissed off.
I hadn’t properly explained the phone room’s purpose, perhaps because it made so little sense to me. Why is it perfunctory for players to call their teams on landlines in a controlled setting? I knew players use the room to call teams, but why is it mandatory? And why is Blake Griffin shaking everyone’s hand like he’s the union rep? These questions exist.
When the agitated translator announces that Ricky has to leave, I nervously bounce the idea off the czars of the room. They won’t have it.Translator fails to see why the poor kid can’t just exit and see his family. There’s cursing, threatening, pleading, demanding, and Ricky sits off in the corner, staring glumly. As I helplessly observe the crisis, a fellow escort swoops in. She’s pretty, self-assured, and, most importantly, she speaks soothing, flawless Spanish—and she knows the translator. This woman cuts the right wire on the ticking bomb, as I cover my face. Translator agrees to the phone call, the arbitrary goal will be reached.
Ricky picks a chocolate chip cookie off the catering table. He nibbles at it, and laughs when I notice. He offers me one, but I decline. There’s more waiting, as Ricky watches a TV screen tuned to the draft. Rubio jumps up as though startled.
“Omri!!”
Ricky looks forlorn. Is he depressed to see a fellow international headed to what was supposed to be his team? Is it envy? Or is Rubio wondering what his career in Sacramento would have been like with Casspi, another kid from across the Atlantic, there with him to restore the team to decency?
It’s time for Ricky to make the phone call. We all hunch over at the table as he dials. The timid kid looks in my general direction as the conversation unfolds. Rubio damns with feint praise.
“I hear Al Jay-fer-sohn es um…guuudeee…”
There are long pauses.
“My buyout? I don’t know…eet eez very compleecated.”
For the sake of propriety, Rubio is trying. His cadence betrays any attempt. He’s not a bullshit artist; he’s a teen unhappily coping with fate-altering forces. The kid can’t fake enthusiasm for the process any more than I could happily sell cars.The Wolves are likely using him as a trade chip, but I’m sure the other end of the phone call is shouted faux enthusiasm for the great mutual future on the horizon. American basketball executives can BS better than scared 18-year-old Spanish kids.
It’s human, which is jarring. I’m used to reading rumors about these kinds of conversations, often described as a series of “talks,” (As in “talks went badly”). I’m not used to an insulted kid politely asserting leverage. I’m not used to seeing NBA politics, practiced on the fly. Rubio’s incensed translator keeps repeating, “Why can’t his agent talk to the team?”
(Good question)
My adrenaline is wearing off. I lead him back to the draft stage for photo ops, where Rubio’s family swarms him. Given nothing to do, I make awkward small talk with Toronto’s newly minted swingman, DeMar DeRozan. DeMar wants to know about the Suns. I plead ignorance again.
“Sometimes, when you’re in the middle of it… it’s hard to understand anything.”
DeMar smiles at my profundity attempt.
"Yeah..."
I say my goodbyes to Ricky’s people and sneak off for phone room snacks. Other exhausted youngish NBA workers are in there munching away on stale deli food. The one incongruity is the presence of an amped-up Terrence Williams, the new Nets wing. Terrance has already built up a rep for weird. ESPN’s draft expert Chad Ford once wrote that, “Talking to Terrence Williams was like talking to a 12 year old.”
Through my headset, I hear Terrence had been AWOL much of the evening. Williams sets eyes on a TV replaying his selection. He suddenly dances around the room, eventually bouncing towards the table where I sit.
“Hi, I’m Terrence, what’s your name? Do you live in New York? Well I play for the NEW JERSEY NETS!”
He points to his Nets hat, and hops high in the air. Williams leaps away as though jumping is his primary mode of conveyance.
I can't get Rachel Zoe's "no words!" catchphrase out of my head today, and that something is Ron Artest. I said it on Twitter, which is like proposing marriage while drunk—I had misgivings about Kevin Garnett's big speech, but also misgivings about those misgivings, and the need to exhaustively backtrack and defend myself. Today, I see why the message felt so clear then. Without shitting on Garnett, whose arrival as an NBA champion was spot-on narrative brilliance, Ron Artest is the one who really bathed himself, and us, in ecstasy. Garnett had been waiting a long, long time. Artest woke up in a burning building, smacked a few timbers, and crawled out with a title. You would be excited, too, and more than a little incoherent.
By most measures of my person, I hate the word "energy". It sucks when it's someone advising me on my health and wellness, and annoying when describing some untalented smurf-monster's on-court contributions. I do, however, still cling to the phrase "energy music," which I think I owe to Amiri Baraka (anti-Semitic kook) from his free jazz days. Here, how about another music cliche to bring the room together: take "between thought and expression," pulp the whole thing, and that's what we got from Artest last night. There was relief in having that ring, that goal accomplished -- and, since Ron Ron is no fool, that sense of legitimacy. But really, this was nothing new. Only the eyes watching had changed the strings upon their fiddles of doom.
The redemption narrative is one of the most hackneyed of sports. We have learned to see through pure ring-chasing, but alas, it persists that a bad guy becomes a good guy if he makes a strong contribution to a championship team. Debates have raged over whether or not Artest-in-LA was a disappointment. Certainly, his presence was a letdown. As a player, he seemed to regress. The defense was still there, and yet still sometimes Kobe would grab the assignment. On offense, he was a mess. The toughness and erratic edge were all there, except unto themselves, they were a destabilizing influence with no ballast to keep them useful. Artest may have been at his most raw and undone, as if the component parts of Ron Artest were seeking to reconstitute a truly positive force. He meant well, but it was a mess.
We wanted so badly for Artest to catch the riding tide of redemption. It got to the point where one bad shot, or fluke-ish make, swung the verdict on his entire season. If a man stands up in the middle of surgery and goes to play a spot of polo, his triumphs and failures are at once exaggerated and trivialized. At some point, all that mattered was whether Artest would complete the story as Garnett had. And in the end, he did. Sure, we got used to praising him solely for toughness and defense, even sheer power of intimidation. To anyone who remembers Artest pre-brawl, or at his best with the Kings, this is an insult to what was once a relentless two-way threat. Whatever the opposite of poetic justice is, there's oodles of that in Ron Artest's story being salvaged by one single game, where everything came together and he played like he should have all season.
Today, everybody loves Ron Artest. All is forgiven. The man won a title, I mean, really won that thing. The Lakers got him for exactly this kind of performance, and like a multi-dimensional Robert Horry, he came through when it counted. Welcome to the club, my son. We are all ART-testians. Let the ink flow, with tales of how far he's come, what a man he is, how he's proof that second and third and fourth chances do come true. And, if you want to stretch some, that there's room for a little personality even as Artest is sized up and down. He's worthy of public support and respect because he's carried out his Zelda-like task. That's the bargain. For fans and media, it's self-serving: he made our dream come true, made himself safe. The NBA's last great hellion has been stuffed into a box and robbed of his fury. Hey, let's all go watch those interviews and have a happy giggle. It's just Ron being Ron. And Ron is a fucking champion.
Except this narrative ignores the obvious: Ron Ron ain't changed a lick. That lens exists entirely for others to change their opinions of QB's finest. You could sense the breaking point during the interviews: Ron isn't screaming with passion and pride like KG, saying all the right things and giving the oddball athlete's equivalent of an acceptance speech (strangely, how the post-game interview was labeled on YouTube). He is frothing, babbling, letting loose more than ever. His shrink? Profuse apologies to every Pacer ever? Crazy visions from the future? If you felt like a real FD fanboy, you could say that Artest has never been more Artest than he was last night. The joke was on everyone else. The man got his title, and suddenly, he got more of a platform, and more attention, than ever for his personality. If anything, this vindicated the Ron Ron that he supposedly grew out of. Dude is still nuts. He's only "new" or "different" for those who need him to be. And they're letting the optics mess with common sense.
Ron Artest is a different basketball player than he was even at the beginning of the season. He's been getting some sort of medical help—it's been unclear all along how much treatment or counseling he had sought during his career–except this time shouted about it, since it had something to do with hitting threes. Shilling for "Champion", his new single, was the same old Artest. However, there was also a sense that Artest was finally free to do him without reservations. His single was a premonition of the very day. His carnival-esque presser totally dispensed with any conventions of athlete, friends, family and press in the same room. This title didn't kill Ron Artest, or usher him into polite society. It only made him more bold. Yes, he's more mature, self-aware, and probably self-possessed than ever. But while others see redemption and a chance to welcome him into the great lobby of champions, Artest sees himself as being legitimated. This proved not that Artest could be someone normal, but that Artest in all his glory had to be taken seriously. That's the crink in the redemption. That's what everyone's missing this morning after.
Ron: First I wanna thank everyone in my hood, all my warriors, [inaudible]. My wife kisha, my family, my kids, everybody. I definitely want to thank my doctor, Dr. [name]. My psychiatrist. She really helped me relax a lot. Thank you so much. It's so difficult to play with so much emotion on the line in the playoffs. She helped me relax. Thank you so much. I knocked down that 3, just like you told me.
Doris: That was a huge shot, your late 3, yes no question. Ron again—
Ron: And my single's coming out! No talking to me (jokingly; Doris laughs). I got a single called Champion. I got a song called Champion! I recorded it...last..June!!!!
(thanks to the Litman clan for the transcription!)
It's come to this. Yes, it's come to this. I suppose there are many courageous thoughts to have about last night's Celtics win, like how much they deserve to win it all if that keeps up. I wake up dreaming of titles and go to sleep crying about them. I live like a champion. But while I've gotten in a few sidelong remarks about Rondo's progress, and how a player who has always fascinated me has really taken it to the streets . . . now, it is the time of reckoning. The dams of restraint, and fatigue, have burst, and I can do nothing today but wonder: how and why does such an athlete exist?
Philosophically speaking, Rajon Rondo is my ideal basketball player. I say this when, in about thirty seconds, I'll be asked to explain my feelings for John Wall on pre-taped radio. Don't get me wrong, I still believe in Wall and his ability to throw basketball into a tizzy. Rondo, though, takes not such a direct route to dominance. I have perhaps been too caught up in his autodidact's legend; it dovetails a little too well with both my love of Other-ly foreign players, as well as rumbling, unfettered creativity that in LeBron James, we trace back to joy, not method. His mode of presentation, though, is as much Garnett as is his freakish build and skill-set. KG is at once out of control and totally within himself, exploiting the world's perception of the mask he can't help. I don't feel bad saying that Rondo comes across as otherworldly and borderline autistic; Doc Rivers swears the man loves to communicate, but is hard to get to. For opponents, that veneer of weird, tinged with hostility and detachment, is damn hard to read. Thus, for Rondo, personality becomes a weapon.
If I'm stumbling, or raving, here, pardon. This has been building for a while and at some point, it couldn't grovel to responsibility all that much longer. At last night's SSSBDA meeting, I had a major breakthrough: Physically, Rondo isn't an alien, or a dinosaur. He's an alien-dinosaur. Or, as Kevin corrected, a dinosaur-alien. Alien-dinosaur would just be a space lizard; dinosaur-alien is creature from other realms overlaid with the qualities of a raptor. This is the first of several times I will repeat this statement: This is no physical being like Rondo. Yes, his arms are long, his speed beyond speech. But there's also his wiry strength, his internal gyroscope (at its best when spooling along with a bit of wobble), those impossibly broad shoulders, calculating gaze, and a face too smooth and empty for this town.
We are nearly arrived at the point of actual basketball. There's a pause here, a beat, and then no turning back. Here's what astounds me most about Rajon Rondo: He is pure style, with an almost nasty disregard for formalism. How often does Rondo make the same move twice? When he succeeds, does he attempt to repeat himself? And, more to the point, does anything in his game suggests he learned the canon, or anything resembling fundamentals? That's not to suggest that RR is a sloppy, or showy player. Nope, on top of all that, he makes the most gnarled, baroque maneuver turn into a given. There's nothing self-consciously fancy or stylized about him. Rondo simply creates, going on what works, and refusing to acknowledge boundaries of good taste or the existence of time-honored solutions. He acknowledges only the situation at hand, the players on the floor, and the forces he feels working against his mechanical will.
Rondo has no sweet spot, no geometry. Even the multi-valent Kobe Bryant tends toward certain areas. Rondo, he could be anywhere, and everywhere at once, toss up the shot or pass it off at any time. At all times, he knows exactly where he stands in relation to the basket and his fellow man. Most astounding of all is how, with Rondo, the most haphazard, loose, or wild moves will resolve into something utterly precise: a wild lay-up that bounces off the glass just so, a shovel pass swung from up high that hits the waiting man, an over-assertive dribble, nearly wild, that sheds all defenders and leaves him out in space alone. Most players get anxious or excited in that situation. Rondo carries himself like he's been there all along, like it's our fault we can't always see this. I believe somewhere in the archives, there's a piece about string theory and many dimensions and worlds unseen. That seems applicable here, as do out-of-phase sound and The Ghost Whisperer.
I suppose the lack of a jumper should bother me. Looking at the way he negotiates space, though, it's hard to fault Rondo for something as trivial as range. He can rearrange defenders like garden furniture, set them scattering with a flash of arms and legs that (yes, I'm resorting to musical analogies) is like the second line version of Ornette's early Prime Time. When we talk about LeBron James expanding basketball's parameters, Kobe Bryant seeing things others can't, or the presumed Frankenstein PG game of John Wall, we deal with—cue the Rumsfeld—the known busting apart at the seams. Yup, unknown knowns, where nevertheless we have the known as a foundation.
Rondo doesn't just work with a different foundation; he's anti-foundational, even. For himself, for the sport, even for the personae we try and latch onto as fans. He isn't progress, or variation, or even an eccentric. Rondo is the strangest player I have ever had the privilege of watching. To locate him in the game's unconscious is the safer, easier explanation. Rajon Rondo is an outsider—or an original who burrows that word back to its own lost beginnings. I have no idea if this kind of athlete happens more often than I think, but for now, I like to think I'm watching a true basketball alien.
