What Hideous Curiosity

Over the years, FD has become associated with many things, some good, some bad. Among the leading positives is Big Baby Belafonte's dazzling artwork. Since the Style Guide was first released--ironically, you can't even see it anymore--Big Baby has popularized a distinctive, resonant way of looking at basketball. Literally. The Macrophenomenal Almanac and the Undisputed Guide expanded the audience for this exciting, perceptive, creative thinking, and Big Baby's work is as inextricably FD as anything else. We're all fortunate to say so. Those prints are something of a trademark. And a cash cow!

(Please note that I can write all of these nice things, however factual, because I've had absolutely nothing to do with the art. Like anyone else, I am a fan who looks on with amazement and appreciation.)

It's not just Big Baby, though. FD has been the launching point for a number of artistic explorations. Who could forget when Tom Ziller used his third-eye vision to teach that the day's mathematics was Z? Or more recently, when Hakeen was remembered amid the scribbles in your notepad that invented your life? FD has a proud artistic tradition.

Today may mark a departure from this distinguished history. Certainly, there is artwork that follows, and it very much endeavors to comment on this basketball which we hold dear. But that's the end of the similarity. Our latest episode offers decidedly less aesthetic appeal than that which is common among its predecessors. It might not even make any sense. The images that you're about to look upon are purposely lo-fi, functional in the service of expressing an idea, but not exactly ready to adorn the lavish halls of Slim Chin's manse.

These images grew out of a confused, meandering conversation that I had with Shoals one night last week as Derrick Rose played a sensational game that we hated. You may recall the capstone:



Less obvious while in plain sight, Derrick Rose took a customary straight path to the basket. He seems to always do that, eschewing soft angles and minute precision for hard darts and raging athleticism directed in a single vector. Rose can change directions, of course, but he explodes in a series of discrete movements, no matter how quickly he may change from one to another. His motion isn't united as a single brush stroke. It is a collection of lines, a pile of pickup sticks arrayed in new patterns but always limited by the component parts. Another image that immediately appeared in my mind was one of a locomotive laying down its own tracks as it rumbled along. Shoals was almost mad at Rose for this. We agreed that it was dissonant. For all of his obvious physical prowess, Rose has a limited game. Only, the limit is born of convenience. He isn't a wonderful shooter, his court vision is not an unmistakable strength, and he does not pose a threat from all over. Derrick Rose doesn't need that. Instead, he's something of a perfect scoring weapon, a man who invariably finds himself at the rim after picking a trail and racing forward along it. The shit works.

Brute strength and straight-line basketball are shrill traits for a point guard in this new era of the position's pitch-perfect primacy. While styles among the leading point guards vary, seemingly each one makes far more sense for its master than Rose's does for a player as physically competent. Shoals and I mulled this over for a while before intervening commitments left us at the point where artwork comes into the story. Lost in the morass we commonly create as our online ruminations crash into each other, we agreed that I would endeavor to create simple visuals that captured the overriding impressions respectively left by my favorite guards. This, we thought, might help us better articulate what Derrick Rose is, exactly. I am not sure that I succeeded, but maybe it will start a better conversation.

(Click to enlarge.)

Chris Paul, Angle Master




Derrick Rose, Raging Bull




Rajon Rondo, Cat on Ice Skates




Russell Westbrook, The Magic Carpet Ride

We'll Always Have the Next Day

Some of you might have noticed, and even taken a shot at, our Allen Iverson paper doll funny contest. Yesterday, we received an entry from artist Emily O'Leary, along with an admission that "I think I sort of misinterpreted the Iverson paper doll thing". It's true, she did. However, the world is a much better place for it, and I wanted to share these with you all as soon as possible.

Don't forget to buy the books, leave Amazon reviews, and check out the store's new offerings. Peep the excerpt on Deadspin, including comments that ruined my morning. And speaking of Deadspin, check back later today for a special, earth-shattering surprise involving yours truly.



I hope this doesn't mean all of you will stop submitting your Iverson creations. Remember, Emily didn't follow the rules. Though I think we'll all agree that an exception might be order. It's kind of like AI himself ... as I describe him in the book!

The Blue Period

Last night, the art event of the fall hit the Twitterverse with a vengeance. I speak of the revelation of uber-bust quarterback Todd Marinovich's quite impressive foray into painting. Marinovich's pieces vary from assumed portraits of football legends to abstracts, yet no matter the subject, his work evinces the depths of his soul as only visual art can. Let's take a look and see what can be gleaned from these works.



"Defeat" is the first piece on the site, which isn't surprising considering Marinovich's public image as a failure on the field. However, he seems to accept this public image as an opportunity to show his audience the pain within. The silhouetted, disconsolate figure stands out against a mess of strong, textured color. Marinovich suggests that an athlete becomes easily defined as a type -- without the important specifics that actually explain a man -- in defeat. But even as his public image becomes clear, that person feels deep pain within, the kind that can't be easily expressed with relatable subjects. In other words, losing creates anonymity and frustration.



Before his troubles with the Raiders, Marinovich starred at USC. So it makes sense that he would pay homage to Trojan legend Marcus Allen with a portrait. Except nothing about this image says "Allen" -- it's all about the overpowering garnet and gold of Marinovich's alma mater. A great player fades into anonymity (again) against the overpowering tradition and dominance of a storied program. Whether you read this as a positive chance for man to become part of something greater than himself or a negative example of individuality getting lost in the crowd depends on your own preferences and view of Marinovich's time at USC. Were they his glory days or the beginning of the end?



If "Defeat" shows agony, then "Magic" displays the joy that can only come with victory. The emotional brushstrokes of "Defeat" have now been absorbed into what is an easily identifiable Larry O'Brien Trophy, and Magic himself appears as a full man, his winning personality on display for everyone to admire. That the technique is so similar to the disarray of "Defeat" suggests that the feelings involved in winning and losing are often similar, or at least equally strong. Except, in victory, they're challenged into a relentlessly positive display of human possibility.



This is a painting of dogs playing poker.



"Baugh" is the most basic portrait in the gallery, and for good reason. Marinovich was a product of a disturbingly modern sports environment, one in which his father could attempt to turn him into an All-Pro from birth and at least initially be championed for his commitment to creating a better life for his son. When the dream died, it was as much an indictment of the system as Marv's personal defects. "Baugh" depicts a time when things were much simpler. At the same time, it would be wrong to mistake this simplicity for a yearning for same. Marinovich is restrained -- his portrait of Sammy Baugh only shows the difference between two eras, not the superiority of one over the other.



I was initially flabbergasted that Marinovich would choose to paint Nick Cave -- after all, he's a musician rarely associated with the travails of a blond quarterback from SoCal. But upon closer inspection, there's an obvious kinship. Cave has made a career of writing about the conflicts between his adult self and a youthful indoctrination into the ways of organized religion. In other words, he has a tortured relationship with his childhood teachers and mentors. It's only natural that Marinovich would feel a kinship with someone like that. When the lessons of father figures don't work out, confusion and anger follow.

How Dew U Wan Tit?

Seriously, fuck Lost. Go to the doctor. Read my ultimate Gil outpouring.

Friday Didn't Happen

You know Twitter has #FF, when no one says anything, or responds to anything, and the whole thing turns into an open-air bazaar for absolutely nothing? In honor of that, I'm doing a quick post here that's similarly pointless.

First, up top, an absolutely amazing drawing of Artis Gilmore from an old SI that, were this several years ago, we would be trying to put on a t-shirt. Now, I think the most we can do is put it up here and wave our arms some. Unless The Vault, which rules, wants to partner with us to do a series of old illo tees curated by us. Just a thought.

Last basketball: Very soon, I'm dropping a really long Gilbert Arenas piece over at The Baseline that I swear you will all love. Stay tuned.

Maybe you noticed that the store ads disappeared (for now) and ye olde Amazon widget moved up. I've decided to get back in the swing of that, partly for the added revenue stream, but in large part because I like writing blurbs about non-sports stuff. Up there now: Cooperstown Confidential, a Bloomsbury book that's less about scandal-mongering and more turning it's grotesquely, indiscriminantly mythic—and totally supra-American—past into something more believable. I think it saves history, while creating a bridge between those days and the imperfect present. I hope we manage that in the new book. Steven Johnson's The Ghost Map had me talking about cholera and shit to anyone who would listen in the week before my wedding, but is really worth it for the finale, where he smushes together the last sentence of every magazine feature he's ever written about civilization, evolution, terrorism, health, and the value of cities.

The Damned Don't Cry is one of those rare movies where Joan Crawford is both scary and hot, as well as a genre pic with layers, or maybe two genres at once. This coming from someone who watches at least one forgettable noir joint a week. I still don't get why there's a song on Africa Brass with the same name, and would prefer to not look it up. The Big O is well past my cut-off year for basketball memoirs, but Robertson's an intensely private man who decided to open up here, and as with his game and personality, you can feel the anger simmering just beneath the stately (okay, sometimes staid) prose. They Cleared the Lane is not only the single best book about race in the early NBA, but also, in its eye for detail, gives you some invaluable info and understanding of that era in general. Breaks my heart that this isn't more widely-read.

Finally, Heaven and Earth's I Can't Seem to Forget About You. Buying this import new is expensive, but there are cheaper used copies up there. The kind of sweet soul so haunting, and uneasy, it borders on scary. Oddly, "Let Me Back In" might be the song I most associate with my wedding weekend.

UPDATE: New column on Arenas now up and running.

FreeDarko/adidas Super-Bargain!!!!

Some of you may recall the Dwight Howard and Derrick Rose web spots we worked with adidas on. To pass the time this summer, adidas has decided to put some of Big Baby's Dwight Howard art on a shirt.

While the tee's been spotted in the New York store and at this summer's adidas Nations camp in Dallas, there has yet to be an official release. In the meantime, we've been given a limited number to play around with, so here's the special offer: spend $100 or more at the FreeDarko Imperial Outlet, and you'll get one of these FreeDarko/adidas joints before anyone else on your block for one penny. If you want, Big Baby, myself, and any other FD members will sign it for you, too.

Remember, we only have the stock we have, so be sure to check availability before placing your order, unless of course you just feel like buying that Kobe print for the hell of it. Which is always welcome, of course.

The Tide Giveth and Taketh

Next week, I will return to FreeDarko, and hopefully The Baseline will load reliably. In the meantime, you should check out this 2003 Roger Beebe video, which I just saw at an INCITE! screening on the subject of sports and aesthetics.

The Official FD Bracket Form

Pretty self-explanatory. We love intricate structures and an excuse for humorous, esoteric metaphors. So while I myself might spend this whole tournament trying to guess at Toney Douglas's pro potential in football, here's this for you to use and enjoy. Big Baby's illo is seriously mentally ill, and the names should be as correct as any significantly less visually amazing bracket you can get from Seth Davis's family.

DOWNLOAD THE FD BRACKET (at your own peril!!!)

BONUS UPDATE: Silverbird, Big Baby and myself visit with Jesse Thorn on The Sound of Young America:

Land Before Time: 2 Football

Wednesday's football flashback was only the beginning. Here you have the apex and the end of this phase in pre-Darko. Click on it to magnify and read. One time at a party in Philly, some guy told me he'd had this work blown up and framed for his living room. I had to rip this out of my only copy to scan it, thus possibly destroying my memorable essay on Their Satanic Majesties Request.

Don't forget to read this oath from yesterday, or my surprisingly wild interview with Clyde Drexler. And to dude who told me at Varsity Letters about his series of DIY All-Star songs, PLEASE GET IN TOUCH!!!!

Land Before Time: 1 Football

Way before FreeDarko was born, Big Baby and I used to do the occasionally sports-themed "column" for The Philadelphia Independent. In honor of the Super Bowl, here's one of them, about the NFL's best taking on a team of "inanimate objects." Click on it, it will grow, and then a magnifying glass will appear to aid your journey.

A few other items:

-FD now on Twitter. We don't quite know how to use it, I keep deleting things, and it's a lot less likely to sound right, but it's a nice distraction. And by all means, call us out for this stuff in the comments section right here.

-The Love of Sports interviews the double-oop team, and catches them in the act of another.

-I don't ordinarily recommend very young, very rough blogs that have nothing to do with sports, but anyone interested in politics should keep an eye on this one, by an old friend who also happens to be a true Movement OG. His first post may be about Obama and race, but there's new stuff there. Honest. I'm trying to help him clean up the look a little.