Madvillainy

Despite the summertime hostility directed toward LeBron James, and in contradistinction to insistence otherwise, the Miami Heat have not been particularly villainous this season. Miami is disliked, probably more than any other team, but the gap between it and other elite teams is more crack than chasm. Consider Boston, which must regularly confront geographic enmity, Paul Pierce intolerance, and the burgeoning Fuck a KG movement. The Celtic haters are legion, and Boston might actually win something, so the hate means more.

To the extent that any Heat is disliked, LeBron either bears or inspires the most vitriol, however it does not feel all that cool or warranted to hate him anymore, partially because he has maintained a fairly low profile this year. James hasn't stoked the flames of fan antipathy in traditional ways. He has not feuded with beloved figures, he has not injured anyone on purpose, he has not acted like the oblivious diva that we like to say he can be during his lowest moments. (Chris Bosh is another story: fair or not, it's fun to marginalize him.) He said a few things about the union and contraction that appeared to piss off journalists more than anyone else. Were Miami a more legitimate threat to win a title this season, that looming possibility might inspire stronger feelings, but until Miami finds a Kendrick Perkins (or Boston gets hurt), the Heat will not end the year with a coronation that echoes what we saw at their introduction.

All the same, some people do cling to the narrative of a dastardly Miami, perhaps none more so than...the Heat, themselves. It's weird and somewhat dissonant. True, there have been few feel-good marketing campaigns this year featuring LeBron, Dwyane Wade, or Chris Bosh. But frankly, there has been little to say about any of them beyond the confines of traditional basketball conversations. Wade's T-Mobile ads are the most memorable contribution the Big Three have made to NBA culture so far this season, and while they satirize the tabloid news cycle and the fury that attended Heat news this summer, the ads feel played out, not poignant. For so much screaming about such a celebrated union, the anticipation appears to have exhausted most of the available oxygen.

Like most things, it's LeBron's fault. Or it might as well be. James's "What Should I Do" ad seemed to cauterize the wounds endured this summer, rather than prolonging the pain or launching a series of reprisals. It was a coda, not an introduction. Some of that effect may owe to how easily, and quickly, the ad was lampooned; critical response from media and fans robbed LeBron's defiant moment of its gravitas. Moving so swiftly to answer James, to cast his ad as either a brilliant ethering or a clueless misstep along the same ill-found path, crowded out his message and seemed to indicate general Heat fatigue. Judging the ad, regardless of direction, meant it could be processed and disposed of swiftly. People were tired, and hating requires far more energy. So Heat haters, far from vituperative and animated, quickly settled into a muted kind of loathing, and the Heat have gone about business--at times struggling but largely playing well--in the glare of celebrity, but without the elevated temperature of hatred.

Don't tell Miami, though. The Heat seem to think there's a war going on outside. Game after game, Miami is introduced to a C-Murder soundtrack:



Conspicuously missing, no matter how understandable the reasons, is the original chorus:

Fuck them other n***as cause I'm down for my n***as (What)
Fuck them other n***as cause I'm down for my n***as (What)
Fuck them other n***as, I ride for my n***as (What)
I die for my n***as/Fuck them other n***as (What)

Angry, profane, spiteful, violent, retributive, cloistered. "Down 4 My N***az" is the soundtrack to the season the Heat expected to have. Only, they aren't having it, as noted. The basketball intelligentsia made its peace with the Heat long ago. Some fans may hate the team, but enough either do not, or just do not care, to the point that James and Wade still started in the All-Star Game. Heat games on national television are broadcast with something resembling calm, the announcers seemingly happy to operate in the quiet epilogue of a story that may ultimately have been about nothing. (Or about everything--power, race, money, labor--but only in years to come.) Still, Miami soldiers on.

Night in and night out, the Heat carry this mantle of hostility out onto their home floor. For each of the three All-Stars, it conjures something different. James has been his usual, brilliant self this season. Without mind-boggling numbers which the most optimistic James fan, or the most excited champion of spite (like me!), may have expected, he has made the Heat his own. Not only does he control the ball when it matters, but Wade has played a role as LeBron's second-in-command. James's steady demeanor, toned down from the exuberance he displayed in Cleveland, bespeaks a man toiling under the weight of expectation, some of it self-imposed. But not merely chastened or quiet, LeBron also has played with an air of dignity that contradicts The Decision and probably would not seem as strong were the Cavaliers not historically terrible. As though Miami's ascension and his game's devastating impact were inadequate, the sorry plight of a Cleveland team sinking swiftly has created a new and dazzling manner by which we can calibrate LeBron's preeminence. For his part, James has spoken kindly of Cleveland and otherwise focused on the task at hand, clawing back some of the respect he surrendered in July. The C-Murder track just isn't right for James under this light; he has been serious and spoken through example, but not insolent.

For Wade, meanwhile, the lasting impression is far more somber. Generally effective but intermittently out of sorts, Dwyane has occupied the role many forecasted for James. He has been supplanted as Miami's leading player. For years, his explosive style carried with it a noble air of martyrdom. He threw himself, often quite literally, into everything, from passing lanes to collapsing big men, and his regular ability to either win or go down furiously was heroic. Dwyane Wade was a wonderful loser when he had to be, and he made long odds a part of his appeal. He has never been a great winner, though, as his referee-aided championship surely reminds even some of his fans. Now, with his athletic exploits less mythic and his place on a winning team somewhat diminished, striding out as the Heat do each home game feels insincere. The bravado and assurance of the track no longer mesh with a player who seems like a lesser version of what he once was. Perception has hurt Wade more than any Heat, and his relative reticence has only reinforced the secondary lane in which he travels. He's like Magic--the bad rapper, not the bad television personality--on this track.

For no one, though, is the illusion of a season spent fighting more disconcerting than Bosh. It doesn't even bear explanation, really. After a summer during which he was happy to subordinate his will and persona to that of the teammates he hoped to gain, the specter of this lanky studio gangster with the disorienting facial hair (he's black, it's Asian) coming at an opponent fueled by C-Murder's bile is laughable. Sorry to be so literal, but C-Murder is in prison. Chris Bosh usually seems like he only eats when LeBron allows it, and as though he would punch with the underside of his fist. Though, this does make Bosh the perfect Heat for today's analysis. The Heat are not who they thought they would have to be, and Bosh lives it.

THE TORLEOF: Earth Without Sorrow or Flesh

The other part has been canceled, so I had to further misspell the title. Thank you.

I had a landlord once who used to say "thank you" after everything, especially the most dick-ish things he said. He said a lot of those. This was an enormous Colombian mathematician, and despite that odd combination was just a boring piece of shit who complained about us leaving a cooler in the yard and yet wouldn't acknowledge there was a cute local gang selling drugs out of the apartment building across the street. We got back at him by having a yard sale that started so early that a crazy man and tranny on meth came and bought all our spare wires and cables.

This was a terrible NBA season, and I blame it all on LeBron James. Well, not all on James himself, but on the long shadow his free agency (and Wade's, and Bosh's, and whoever else became a franchise player just by being on the market this summer) cast over the actual season.

Even if these players and their mini-maxes had, as they say, changed the game -- arguably for the better, or at least more noble -- they also proceeded to hold the hostage throughout the season. Not to retreat to what's fast becoming a cliche, but Durant and the Thunder provided relief from this climate, flushing out the stale air and giving us a team that, ostensibly, didn't need to worry about contracts, or money, or personnel, or brand, or media overkill. Sure, that's a really shallow take on that team, but compared to the Knicks and Nets and LeBron, they were unencumbered. At the same time, OKC was part of the next generation. Kobe, Garnett, and Duncan won't last forever, as we begun to see this year. The subject of Dirk remains open to discussion.

But even more disillusioning than the build-up to free agency was what's passed for NBA coverage, and fandom, in the wake of The Decision. Blanket statement: It was all a huge moralistic, lazy bore, that obscured the fact that we're about to see a team in action that could change everything we thought we knew about basketball. If you think that statement is overcooked, please find words to disagree with it. There has never been a team this grandiose; nor one that offered so many possibilities on the court. How many games the Heat will (or need to) win, whose team it is, and whether karma will rear its ugly head are continuations of a post-Decision mindset. Can we please, for fuck's sake, all stop whining and pointing fingers and get ready for the ride of our lives? If you're about to bungee jump into a Buddhist temple with a bag of coke in your pocket, you don't spend your time worrying about someone breaking in line.

There are two basic questions to answer here. One: do you love basketball or are you a miserable asshole? The second, which has very personal implications for me: Do you come to the game with an agenda, or turn on the television hoping to see meaning created?

Thus we arrive at the small matter of whether FreeDarko (noun) ever be FreeDarko (adjective) again. At some point, FreeDarko turned five years old, which makes us one of the longest-tenured sports blogs going. You think I would have noted this milestone before now, but I didn't—and not just because of Shoefly's early struggles with Blogger (he's back on Boxiana and pure as ever, by the way). FreeDarko is somehow both an experiment that should have burned itself out a long time ago, and a scrappy survivor. The latter doesn't suit me, and the former makes a mockery of the fact that I still write for a living.

You can say that we take the NBA too seriously, traffic in obscurities, or are out of touch with the average fan. But you can't accuse us of not being open. And that's why I'm looking forward to 2010-11 in a very special way, with an amount of gusto greater than or equal to the dread I felt in 2009-10. For FreeDarko, then, the Heat are the gift to end all gifts. I just hope the rest of the world hasn't gone so far that this team blows up in their face. Or wait, maybe I do.

A Grade-School Terror

This was only a matter of time: the Game has already committed to wax what is likely the first of many forthcoming Miami Heat references. There could not have been a more perfect musical lab rat. This was obvious, really.

Game's fondness for the NBA knows no limits. (Listen to these, too. At your own peril.) Neither do his self-consciousness, nor his looming presence as an inexplicable outsider. There is something strange about a guy on a major label whose career was anointed by a trinity of rap folks who couldn't get more mainstream--Dr. Dre, Eminem, and 50 Cent--constantly moping around on the periphery as though he were left behind. (Left behind! Holy trinity! FD is evangelical!) He loves being a victim--of circumstance, of politics, of street life. Yet, he also loves being so brash and boastful that the sad-sack routine clashes with the lyrical bravado. Game is the ultimate establishment villain in that regard. Given the opprobrium that has poured forth for LeBron since he left Cleveland, there is a fitting, albeit temporary, alliance to be found among these two.

In a more general sense, Game's latest is also an appropriate theme song for a team that now will be the most hated in Cleveland, New York, Chicago, and many other places. Miami, suddenly entrenched as the NBA's signature glamor team, also has become a public enemy. Looking past the potential for beautiful basketball that could literally transform the sport, many fans will lash out at the conquering monolith with fear and envy. The Heat will take on the role of outsiders, then, raiding and pillaging rather than merely ruling. And that, we can only imagine, will inspire many more Game verses. Or maybe a face tattoo. Or something.



"I keep three heats on me
45, Glock, and the gage
LeBron James, Chris Bosh, and D Wade
Any n***a try to stunt, get sprayed
What happened to the body?
N***a M.I.A."

This is victory music. Coming at the end of the fourth quarter to an arena near you!

Things Go Nowhere

I finally say something about LeBron&Gilbert&Rhoden&Jesse&you. Or the Heat as uprising and upheaval, louder than I had before. Wasn't writing because others had already nailed it, but there were so many people out there missing the point, I figured the reinforcements couldn't hurt.

IT'S NOT ABOUT A SALARY

Favorite reactions so far: @bmicheal recommending Marxist Kojeve (whom I don't know)as a better point of reference than Hegel himself. And a FanHouse commenter asking, simply "what the hell are you talking about?"

Oh, and very trivial, but if this Boston thing is going to happen it will probably be the last week in the month. I have no idea how to successfully organize something like this.

I Can't Share Ranks

I've been around the world. I did some writing on soccer and America. You would do better to read this Sport is a TV Show post, or Brian's dissection of Spain's aesthetics. As far as LeBron is concerned, today I offered up a plea for sanity based on The LeBrons, Friday I predicted the toast of doom at Melo's wedding.

There are, however, some decidedly FD matters to tend to. First, off of Brian's "Ballet of Frost" post linked above: I very much enjoyed watching Spain throughout the World Cup. As I told Eric several times, they made me feel like I actually understood something about soccer. Many people compared the midfielders, especially Xavi, to Nash. And it's true—we've often discussed on here the ways in which Nash creates new passing lanes. To me, that's what the endless movement of Spain looked like: Manipulating position until an unfamiliar path to the goal revealed itself. I don't care if it's wrong, it's how I saw it. What got to me, though, was how little playfulness there seemed to be in what was, in its most basic and post-structural sense, play. I tweeted that it was the most earnest trickery I'd ever seen. Today, chatting with Trey, I called it Nash with no sense of fun; he came back with "Chris Paul if he weren't a dick".

I may still be a soccer beginner, but style is universal, because it is a product, and mirror for, the human spirit. I think what made Brian's piece resonate with me was that, while I don't find Spain at all boring, there is something inhuman about them that's always on the wrong side of human. They aren't steely or clinical; it's a game that wants badly to express itself, to be art not math, and yet it's fundamentally either too fulsome or too cautious to take that plunge.

Back to reality: I watched John Wall's debut, eagerly, and was perfectly satisfied with what I saw. Yes, there were a few really bad turnovers (what happened to the handle?), and no, the jumper hasn't emerged overnight. But mostly, this looked like Wall, at some vague semblance of the next level. He got his teammates involved, and pretty quickly established that he and JaVale McGee could become Paul-Chandler Redux. Throw Blatche in there and I have no idea how you express it as a word-equation. Blah blah blah not so much quicker than everyone else wide-open game agrees with him gets to the line college obviously stifled him. The real key, though, is that Wall didn't need to make a statement. No one doubts him. And as a pure point, you've got to figure that he was more interested in making others look good—especially when they need it so much more than he does.



The lottery picks who make headlines in summer leagues are usually those with something to prove. I'm thinking specifically of Tyreke Evans, when no one understood what position he played, or why he mattered more than Rubio. Anthony Rudolph had 40 when his legend started to build. Of course, there's also Julian Wright or Qyntel Woods going off, but turning in the other direction, does anyone think for a second that LeBron James couldn't have dominated summer league if he wanted to? Some rookies can afford to take slow, get a feel for this sort-of-pro context as a warm-up for the NBA, and, as Wall did, realize it means more to the second-rounders and free agents than to them. The big men who get 647573 fouls? It's them getting their bearings. All lottery picks should be able to use the summer league like this. But alas, sometimes they end up in the same boat as D-League-bound aspirants.

POSITIONAL REVOLUTION: I forgot who on ESPN kept saying "great players figure out how to play together". I think it was Tim Legler, who also said (I think) that Wade and James had the same kind of game. But, at the risk of embracing pure emptiness, this Miami Heat is super-major with regard to one of this site's core tenets. Actually, fuck it, these three DO know how to play together, like they did in the Olympics when they conquered the known universe. And that was with Kobe Bryant in tow, who—with all due respect to the God—makes this line-up more difficult to pull-off, since he's less versatile than James or Wade.

I have lately become enamored of the idea that James is a reluctant mega-scorer. Not a bitch who doesn't live for late game situations, or whatever the latest attack meme is, but a multi-dimensional beast who can do so much more with the floor than simply barrel inside or hoist jumpers. Given how much success he has with those two tools, the possibilities are mind-blowing. Once upon a time, James was likened to Magic Johnson. Put LBJ at point forward, truly playing on or off the ball, at either end of the pick and roll. There's no reason he can be the most ferocious inside-outside/outside-inside threat the league has ever seen. A quitter because he's with two other All-Stars? Fine, whatever. I'll take James unleashed as superstructure, with Wade alternating between the two guard slots, and Bosh taking advantage of his ranginess as a big man (the Gasol comparison). I know I said that this team was the anti-Thunder, but if they go this direction, they'll be light years ahead of Durant and company.

I refuse to comment on the new Raptors or Suns any further until there's a good chart for me to consult.

Constitute a Plane

Good things and bad things both happen in three. So do deaths, and celebrity deaths, which may or may not be transferable categories. There is no question that three is a magical number, one that has echoed throughout human history and systems of belief as both structurally perfect and aesthetically glorious. It makes you wonder why, at various junctures in the NBA’s lifespan, the media has settled for the half-assed “Big Three.” If it comes to pass, the Tree People Cartel of LeBron, Wade, and Bosh in Miami needs a bigger, better name that expressed exactly what forces are unlocked when three join forces. The running favorite thus far seems to be “The Triumvirate”. We have chosen to examine this option, and several others, to see if the pieces fit.



Triumvirate: This is the default name, so it falls upon us to point out the unfortunate fact that the first triumvirate of Julius Caesar, Pompey, and Marcus Crassus was a secret political pact between the three bigwigs for much of its seven-year life. It was also an uneasy alliance with perpetual in-fighting, which became clear in 53 BC when Crassus died and Pompey and Caesar almost immediately started fighting for total control of the budding empire. This is the analogy for people who think the three stars’ egos would almost immediately doom what looks amazing on paper. Still, some of the correspondences work. LeBron is obviously Caesar, a man of overpowering ambition who wants to remake the world in his image as others (Alexander the Great, Michael Jordan) have done before. That makes Wade Pompey, a superstar in his own right who would be forced to play second fiddle because of circumstances, not a lack of talent. If there were to be a big blow-up in Miami, it’d be between these two. That leaves Bosh to function as Crassus, an important figure who is nonetheless likely to fall into the margins of history as the other two stars garner most of the attention. Let’s revisit this one if the trio fails miserably. It is currently too negative to describe a scenario with such amazing potential. (Eric Freeman)



The Holy Trinity: Before anyone freaks out and burns my head on a popsicle stick, remember, this whole summer has a messianic tinge to it, and LeBron’s been as embodying various modes of divinity since he was 16. This is the most famous three-part entity ever, too, which should make it an obvious choice. Except upon further inspection, it doesn’t really work. LeBron has to be the Son, since that’s buried somewhere deep inside his brand DNA. The Holy Ghost, which is of course not a ghost but a mystical presence, is generally represented in all post-Renaissance art as a glowing dove. That seems to go with Chris Bosh, who is both one of those players who fills in gaps (when in the presence of other stars) and isn’t possessed of the most aggro personality. But he still plays in the paint, or near it, which conflicts with everything we know about birds, as animals and as metaphors for people. What really drags this one down, though, is Dwyane Wade as The Father. His authority is earned and re-earned with each staggering move, not projected as a matter of fact -- that’s more something a big man, or less unpredictable guard, would do. Plus, even if you understand the Trinity as devoid of hierarchy, there’s still an implied “Jesus happened later,” and that’s at odds with the modern notions of progress we apply to sports. To us, LeBron is progress over all else. To God, it was progress to become mortal and get murdered. Good thing that bird was hanging around to light the way. (Bethlehem Shoals)



The Summit at Yalta: It’s got “Summit” in the title, which is cool, since other than “Triumvirate” no fancy-sounding word has been thrown around more in reference to this off-season. Also, if anyone cares, Eric and I both made this joke independent of each other, a testament to the depth of our friendship (or the limits of our wit, or the formulaic nature of all things FD). Maybe not so catchy, though, in name alone. “Yalta” would suffice, I suppose. As for the principals? The fact that one All-Star will be stuck playing the role of a demented genocidal maniac makes this a hard sell. Plus, there’s that innate human attraction to hierarchy. Sorry, other countries, but at this point in time the USA had taken its rightful place atop the heap of nations. That would automatically make LeBron into FDR, even though a bold, benevolent cripple doesn’t really reflect the man or his game. Maybe James is Stalin, if nothing else for the damage he can so readily inflict upon everyone else on the floor. Wade, with his backlog of injuries and fashion sense that at least references the world of blue bloods that FDR sprang from, works well as Roosevelt. His style, which prizes grand gestures over meting out elastic punishment, seems more in keeping with the President’s leadership style (and more convincingly puts Bron in his place as Stalin). Bosh may not be the master orator, humorist, or generally outsize human being that Churchill was. But like Britain, he’s the odd man out here, the one who has has beaten down and nearly defeated and needs more than anyone for this pact to restore his dignity. The slow break-up with the international-minded Raptors = Britain’s empire once and for all dwindling away. (BS)



The Three Special Triangles: Basketball is a sport with geometry built into its foundations, even if we don’t always acknowledge it. And while it may seem difficult to compare basketball players to shapes, several correspondences fit quite well. LeBron is obviously the equilateral triangle, a shape without flaw that embodies perfection we have come to assume only exists in the divine. Wade is the isosceles, a near-perfect shape with only minor faults (the unequal side, Dwyane’s penchant for getting injured) in its attempt for equalaterality. Sadly, Bosh cannot be the right triangle. His well-rounded game cannot be seen in a shape with such a sharp angle; it’s for a role player, not a lanky star. Trying to put him in a role that doesn’t suit him would simply be obtuse. (EF)



Chimera: The chimera wasn’t actually three things (nor was the Trinity, exactly, but that’s a finer point). However, on a perfect basketball team, players achieve the synergy of oneness, a unity of performance that elides anything like ego or selfish demands. Thus, behold, a monster of myth and legend that combined that best—and some might say, the worst—qualities of a lion, snake, and goat. LeBron is the lion. He likes lions, and his name begins with an “L”. Plus, the lion has a head and body on there, indicative of the many ways James can contribute to the team. In strict, formal terms, no player has ever been more torso-like than LeBron, as he literally fills out the tasks a basketball team must execute like few players in the game’s history. Wade is the serpent, a deadly weapon coiled to strike, quick and decisive but not exactly the hub of activity. Also, the snake is a phallic symbol, and everyone knows D-Wade gets around. Bosh is the goat; people seem to dislike him, which means if this goes sour, it will be his fault for lacking toughness (no one understands it in the goat, either!). Also, the goat improbably juts out of the lion’s body, much in the same way that Bosh’s low post game will serve as an appendage of whatever James decides to do with the paint at any given moment. The perfect big man for LeBron is a skilled one capable of matching his skill level and physical ability, but sublimating his need to be anything more than a fantastic appendage. No, that’s not another dick joke. Think Nash and Amar’e, if Nash were more generally commanding and Amar’e more understated and steady. If only there were some wings on this thing. (BS)



Charmed: The strength of the sister witches was based on “The Power of Three,” and since teams are like families, this is a natural comparison. Upon closer inspection, though, it doesn’t hold . At first glance, LeBron would seem to be Shannen Doherty, the dependable, talented leader of the group. But Miami will likely remain Wade’s team, so perhaps he should be Doherty. But where does that put LeBron? He is certainly not Holly Marie Combs, who never stood out in any season and only registered as the one who would nag her husband for wearing white robes with the other White Lighters. And what of Alyssa Milano, who lacked discipline and needed to learn the value of responsibility? Surely none of these established stars could be spoken of in such a way, and Rudy Gay was never going to be in this group. Plus, Bosh looks more like one of the demons that the sisters vanquished with poorly rendered CGI. There are no easy comparisons here, just as there is no way to easily deal with the fact that Milano turned into a mermaid and wants to live in the sea. (Note: If you are a fan of post-Doherty seasons, substitute Milano for Doherty and Rose McGowan for Milano.) (EF)



John Coltrane, Pharaoh Sanders, Albert Ayler: In 1967, not long after Coltrane’s death, Marxist free jazz critic Franz Kofsky quoted Ayler as calling Coltrane “the father,” Trane’s sidekick Sanders “the son,” and himself “the Holy Ghost.” This one is in serious trouble from the beginning, since it’s essentially a metaphor built on the back of another. Let’s not even bother with discerning whether this works against the original, religious formation. Not because we couldn’t, or didn’t already type it up before deleting it, but because if that’s the basis for inclusion, this one might be a loser right off the jump. Instead, let’s just compare musicians the ballers. LeBron and Coltrane are a good fit, as both combine the magisterial with the truly expressive. Wade as Sanders, the hell-raising wingman, is great, and for all we know Wade could end up with Eryakh Badu, wear a knit arm sleeve, and start celebrating Blackness after every dunk. Bosh as Ayler? That’s all wrong. If Sanders pushed Coltrane while living under his roof, Ayler—like the actual Holy Ghost—was floating in the air as both insinuation and untapped energy. He was possibility, freedom, and maybe even impossible to pin down. That’s Anthony Randolph, and unfortunately, I don’t think we’ll see James, Wade, and Randolph coming out of this summer as anyone’s Team of Titans. (BS)

I Knew I Was in Danger

We were once lucky enough to feature some images from bobarke/champions. He has returned, and we are all the better for it. Also check out the year-end edition of FD/DoC, with special guest star Eric Freeman.

String Those Nerves Together Now

In olden days, I would have said "read what I wrote over there but this is the real", and then poured out my innards. But the problem with FanHouse is that they want me doing whatever. Have you read the previews Ziller and I did? I really couldn't make any less sense if I wanted to. So read them. Thus, as the playoff monster begins to stir, I find myself on my own doormat, faced with the possibility that what's on FD might be more straightforward than my "real" gig. Strange times we inhabit. However, I wanted to tend to these lands, dry and shriveled as they have become. So here's my very sober, useful rundown of Things That Persuade Me in This Postseason.

1. The Thunder--Really, can there be any doubt? Forget for a second that Durant is, if not LeBron's narrative, mystical equal, maybe even greater for not being equipped with a superpower's physique. He looks like I figure Young Ezekiel did, and also deserves some sort of otherworldly, possibly Martian, nickname. LeBron is, pardson the pun, all embronzed. Durant is exotic metals; there's a reason why, at one point, there was an Avatar comparison for him in a part of the new book. I think we finally decided it was at once too true and too silly to comprehend.

But the Thunder as a whole represent so much we've been in favor of while—and here's the kicker—without seeming like a leap of faith. Serge Ibaka is not a test. Russell Westbrook is not a test. The Hawks when they dared face Boston were exhilarating, but living on the edge can sometimes leave you feeling tawdry. No one thinks OKC beat LA, but good luck finding a single serious basketball fan who expects a sweep with zero intrigue.

2. Brandon Jennings--Tyreke Evans is a major stylist, and I still don't think people are letting that all-around game of his sink in. I've made my peace with Curry. But Jennings is the only one left standing, and while the Bucks are taking two games---no more, no less--tell me you aren't excited to see Jennings try his hand at the playoffs. No Bogut hurts the team's case, and Jennings' absolute value, and yet if the Bucks are going down anyway, why not do so with something resembling a Brandon Jennings showcase? I'm not talking about no 55; that's probably what led to his abrupt drop off the ROY map (and Curry's rise).

Let's just see Jennings carry himself like he belongs there, run his team, and demonstrate the game that makes him a clear-cut building block at the one. At the beginning of the season, the AI comparisons were pure bunk to me. I loved Jennings best when he slithered around the half-court looking to make a play. He can either jack up shots here in desperation or dig in and try to animate the bunch. One good thing about Skiles: He will be, umm, gently pushing for number two.

3. Dwyane Wade-- No one told me, I didn't notice, and frankly (stats aside), it didn't show all the time. But Wade was still pretty out-of-this-world in the 2009-10. Thus, I am looking forward for Wade to really blow it all out. That Round One is against Boston, the perfect team to fly headlong into and hope for collapse (or a revved-up guitar soundtrack) (is it so wrong that I once found a LeBron mix soundtracked with Iron Maiden?).

Despite what I've been writing at FanHouse, I don't quite get how players are thinking of these playoffs in terms of this summer. No one needs to be convinced that Wade can prevail, at least game-to-game. Still, 2010 is more than a rat race, it's a pecking order, with LeBron's 2010-ness having become some measure of his absolute power over the league. Not that Wade can nibble away at that, but riding high as the Free Agency babble begins is very much the new pecking order around the league. Like standings or balloting ever matter; there all we ever hear about is the winner. Not so with 2010. The whole world is watching and Wade is certainly looking to gain a little on LeBron. The question, though: What happens to this hierarchy once 2010 is over?



4. Bobcats WTF--I really, really need some help on this one. It's almost like when you go to a mental hospital in the fifties (okay, I'm imagining Shutter Island), and everyone's sweeping floors and playing Risk!, and then all of a sudden there's a disturbance and things really jump off. Is Larry Brown the warden? Wait, how is he not—I'm sorry to repeat myself so often on this count—the Bad News Bears coach? (Billy Bob version, motherfuckers . . . if I go down that path, I go down it all alone.)

Stephen Jackson, Gerald Wallace, Tyrus Thomas, Boris Diaw, Tyson Chandler, even Raymond Felton . . . it's like karmic revenge for the Believe! Warriors. If you let me coach this team I would discover Atlantis and burn down a subway. But no one's even suggesting that this team is scrappy, or violent, or even miscreants floating out on a boat somewhere (love that movie Strange Cargo!). For God's sake, didn't Stephen Jackson decree himself a pirate at some point?

5. Please let the Derrick Rose backlash begin now. Please bring back that psychedelic karaoke Luol Deng.

6. In the immortal words of J.E. Skeets, WHAT DO YOU THINK!??!!?!??!?

We Need to Dance

After the Miami Heat intro vids and The Penguin Guide to Jazz Recordings: Ninth Edition.

**** Dwyane Wade, Number Three Guard. Highly unexpected set from an alto player best known for his pitch-perfect standards and ballads. Here, Wade stretches out in various spare trio settings. With piano and drums, he sets up dense thickets of squelches and squeals; piano and bass bring out his deliberate, elegiac side like never before; in the more conventional sax/bass/drums format, Wade tears through angular post-bop originals like a man pushing his creative capacity to the point of exhaustion, even collapse.



*** Udonis Haslem, Forty Forward. Haslem had always been a sturdy pianist in the Bobby Timmons vein, but when got the chance to record for Blue Note, he took advantage of the extra rehearsal time and created something far more ambitious. Sticking to the standard soul jazz trio, and finding himself constantly returning to its cliches, Haslem nevertheless aims high with these forty short pieces about his conversion to Islam and travels in the Middle East. Engimatic bassist Babar, making his only appearance on record here, is the only one whose solos consistently realize this exalted mood.



***1/2 Mario Chalmers, C-H-A-L-M-E-R-S. There were plenty of other trumpeters around New York with the same slashing tone, technical facility, and knack for heady skeins of harmonic sophistication. Sons of Miles and Dizzy alike, they were a dime a dozen, each more impressive than the next and thus somehow bringing the whole bunch down. What makes Marion Chalmers's debut so remarkable is that not only does he capture a moment, he transcends it due in no small part due to the fast company he keeps.



***** Michael Beasley, Forward. Beasley was a prodigy in the truest, and most unfortunate, sense. He was barely in his twenties when this masterpiece was recorded, and already had several standards to his name. Forward was unlike any other jazz being made at the time, and it remains elusive to this day. Employing a crude form of multi-tracking, unorthodox combinations like flugelhorn, banjo, and bagpipes, and sometimes changing instruments mid-improvisation, it's nevertheless Beasley's raw, vibrant piano that steals the show.



**1/2 Carlos Arroyo, Number Eight. Blue Note rarely attempted to cash in on trends, but one of its few truly venal records is also one of the strangest. Arroyo was a largely forgettable salsa pianist with progressive tendencies. Cutting Latin versions of the music from the then-obscure British television series The Prisoner falls somewhere between crass opportunism and off-beat pop culture plundering. Arroyo is all over the place, sometimes solemn, oftentimes festive, as if he were at once trying to take the material too seriously and reject its source. A curiosity worth hearing.

*** Quentin Richardson, Five. An oddly iconic title for such a workmanlike set. Richardson's trombone can be heard on a slew of other recordings from this period, ranging from proto-funk to cerebral cool. He's the sort of player, and writer, whose solos and compositions typically include at least one passage of utter ingenuity and another that borders on pap. Five is his only solo effort. While far from the archetypal quintet outting, it's nevertheless admirable from start to finish.

** Daequan Cook, Number Fourteen Guard. Cook was a sporadic, slapdash drummer best known for his hi-hat flourishes and otherwise low-key timekeeping. This is the kind of record that should discourage drummers from ever thinking they can take the lead in the studio, even if the label's put them up to it.

You're Podcastcic!

You can't handle it. New episode of "FreeDarko Presents the Disciples of Clyde NBA Podcast" that feature appearances by myself, Dr. LIC, and our good friend Joey, who hid from his heritage by refusing to reveal his last name. Topics covered include the good and bad of the Bron/Wade/Kobe triumverate, other examples of the Beijing Effect, how pleasant it is that no one's tanking, and LeBron's disco essence.



As a public service, here's a playlist of the music used in the show:

"Everything's Ruined" - Faith No More
"I Really Love You" - The Ambassadors
"Assassins" - Geto Boys
"Dr. Handy's Dandy Candy" - Jim Ford"
"Nothing Comes to a Sleeper (But a Dream)" - Sam Dees
"Duel" - Madlib
"If You're Ready (Come Go With Me) - Staple Singers

Oh, and them DoC boys can write a little, too. Check out this extensive post on a playoff scenario that now won't happen, which caught my eye immediately with its 1980's DC reference in the title. Also, if you're in Chicago, go see Dan's play.

-Some other odds and ends: Not much to say about Garnett. I don't want to say he's dead to me, but I've got zero emotion invested in him or his career at this point. And I like the idea of the Celtics falling out of the picture early, not out of bitterness, but because I don't want to have to hear about them. That said, this makes Round One into THE RONDO/ROSE SHOWDOWN TO END ALL AGES AND FOREVER, which oddly has me stoked about a Boston playoff series.

-I only found out today that the playoffs actually start Saturday, not Sunday. As I mentioned, I'm co-giving this paper at EMP on Saturday (panel is "Disembodiment," where Dave Grubbs will upstage the fuck out of me, I'm sure). However, on Saturday there's the aforementioned Chicago/Boston intrigue; our chance to see just how hard Bron brings it from the first possession, against the Pistons, no less; Dallas/San Antonio I'm find with missing, but I have all sorts of obligations to pay attention to Portland/Houston, where there's oh so much at stake. While I just happened to cop a DVR this week, I'm still a little overwhelmed. Help me deal!

-And yeah, the store is on fire, sales abound, and our hella fresh Kevin Durant tee should be flying on a flagpole somewhere. Play us a visit, you won't be sorry.

Turn Your Z Around: The Ways of Wade

First there was the Z, then 2.0. A scientist cooked up the team version.

Now we bring you a re-imagining:

Soon, we will release the statistical baselines for skill qualification. Until then, an example:

You've Been Scared

First, the widget: I think I've finally quit for good, which has me returning to Cigarettes Are Sublime and its effort to get at what, beyond tobacco, makes smoking great; Miike's remake of Graveyard of Honor is one of the few DVD's I own, and I find it as moving in its own way as The Wolves; since I'm going to see Leonard Cohen later this month, I've decided to conclude that New Skin for the Old Ceremony, which I listened to on repeat the only time I wrote a short story; a couple years back, Dr. LIC and myself randomly found out we were both huge fans of Israel Rabon's ultra-bleak The Street, about a homeless Jewish soldier in 1920's Poland; Charles Shaar Murray's Crosstown Traffic is like Greil Marcus if he actually liked music; I'm routinely amazed at how many people, myself included, have long been in the dark about Playing for Keeps, Halberstam's long-ass Jordan bio.

At many times in many hours, we have brought forth the notion of a Positional Revolution. These have been near-utopian ideals, which mostly involve either an entire team structuring itself around a single, atypical player (or as a series of interdependent roles that buck convention), or a bunch of do-it-all weirdos whose contributions shift from possession to possession. Old news for anyone who has read this blog before this year, which has been remarkably devoid of advances on that front.

That is, until about a week ago. That's when the Thunder signed Shaun Livingston, I remembered they had Thabo, and I started to wonder, what becometh of Russell Westbrook? You want to talk about Rondo as a PG lacking in jump shot? Westbrook is the point equivalent of a dirty bomb. He's so unpredictable, and riotously imperfect, that you really have to wonder how teams scouting him managed to keep any stable future hologram in front of them while taking their notes. It's not just that he lacks position, but that he undermines, even threatens, the stability of those around him.

No, this isn't that same old combo-itis again, or the curse of the tweener. I think it's pretty much established that this cliche, conservative as it may be, rings damningly true except in the case of certain active backcourts where two guards overstep their bounds just enough to mesh (this year, it's Williams/West). I see Westbrook as too unstable, divergent, and fundamentally bugged-out to fit into that synergistic relationship; to a lesser extent, I think this applies to Jerryd Bayless, which is why I tried to get Golliver to ask Pritchard just what they saw in Bayless. Did they think of him vis a vis a template, and worry about his imperfections, his tweener-nes, or see him as a singularity that would really put some balls back in "best available. "Best available" as a way forward, not a cop-out. FYI, that's kind of what I think the Thunder are doing, and I applaud them for it.



Yet so far, all thinking along these lines has been in the context of a system. The redemption of such players comes when, organically, they fit into a plan. They are, in some sense, without form until they fit. Or, no matter how sympathetically, they're bent and warped slightly to work well within whatever normal, or abnormal, system they've been cast in. They could be tweeners well-coached, multi-purpose threats, or guys responsibly down for whatever (Hedo!!). But what of the Westbrooks, possibly Bayless and Barbosa, maybe Tyreke Evans—all minscule heirs to Dwyane Wade, a player who at every turn has resisted pigeon-holing and even too much law and order from possession to possession. Not because he's selfish, but because he works best when set loose and asked to explode. With that will come equal parts individual and team, but you can't see it coming and planning for it is something of a fool's errand. Compare that with LeBron's "allow me to be all pillars of your temple" functionality.

You wonder, then, what's the way to describe Westbrook? I've written previously about a redistribution of labor, either on the macro or micro level within a team. Are there not, though, players most suited not to responding to these signals from the realm of ideas, but to serving as catalysts in their own right, whose mismatched, or garbled skill-sets is proof not that they don't fit in, or are to become lepers in the taxonomy of scouting (I love Jamal Crawford, but we're not talking about his kind of limbo here). We still think of these players, and even superstars like Durant, in terms of how they might best be used to make sense of the usual slate of basketball responbiltiies. Durant can, in a sense, become a position unto himself. But either through their relative insignificance, or sheer, explosive weirdness, there's a whole class of smaller players who are best served as fields of probability, abilities that cohere more as a mess of intriguing tendencies than a CV-ready mission statement. This is nothing less than the difference between believing in skills and being cowed by the notion of responsibility.

(Graphs by Ziller. This is the spectrum of positionality. Blue dots are continuity, red ones isolated occurrences.)







I want to step back here and nod in the direction of a conversation Silverbird5000 and I had the other day concerning, on some base level, stats. We eventually returned to the question of whether, in the most crude sense, something like adjusted +/- presumes (as Berri certainly does) that it's better to have a team full of players equally good at offense and defense, at perimeter and the paint, than a collection of folks who excel at some things but suck at others. Forget for a second that what I've just described is pretty much the way teams are built, since the game is as much a series of encounters in the moment as an overall flow of data, and dominance gets you more mileage than playing it close in all departments. But it also dawned on me how much this ultra-conservative version of basketball (where, say, you'd take two players that are 5 in all categories as opposed to two with a wider range of "scores") resembles a team like the Warriors of legend, where even Baron Davis could blur his PG's role with Jackson around, or the Amare-less Suns, or that ideal D'Antoni team mentioned in the press at one point of "all 6'8" guys who can run and pass."

Here, of course, is where the ultra-right and ultra-left unwittingly crash into each other, when Communism becomes Fascism, or communes giving way to cults. I doubt it ever works the other way—a sinister consolidation of power and crushing of all opposition giving way to egalitarian sunshine and light? But certainly, the nexus is both unlikely and potential ammunition for both sides, even if it's that moment where you look across the battlefield and realize your enemy is human. We all want the same thing, sometimes.



And now, we come to what should be the topic of the hour, Allen Iverson. I find it fascinating that, ever since the 2001 Finals, even those who decry ballhogs and bemoan the death of the league have a soft spot for the guy. He's heart personified, guts on a stick, a performer whose sheer visceral and emotional impact on fans is like being hit by an unshorn tidal wave. He is, in short, a stone classic, a Hall of Famer, and one of the most important players in the game (even if you want to argue over whether he's one of the best). But he's been both ahead of his time and, in his uncompromising version of the Wade philosophy, a prototype that could not move forward without reforms. It's a given by now: AI can't play any other way. Even with Melo, when he racked up assists and worked well with another scorer, he set the tone and rhythm of every possession, and forced all around him to pick on his idiosyncratic sense of timing, space, and cues.

We can argue over whether or not the 2000-01 Sixers were effectively built around him, since no one else on there even needs to touch the ball. I'd say, though, that in retrospect, Iverson isn't the man who wrecked the guard position, but a phenomenal talent who can't help himself—actually, can't help but transcend the very notion of roles and responsibilities. As irresponsible as it sounds, Iverson only works when you give him the ball and let him improvise. Let what come may. Not because he's a ball-hog, but because the game only comes to him on those terms. Just as, for the guards discussed above, there's too much going on there (and sometimes missing there) to try and assign them clear-cut responsibilities. We're talking about a stylistic profile, a new way of mapping an ordinarily maddening kind of player. Inconvenient truths, but ones that have yielded fruits at times. Iverson is perhaps too extreme to even fit this model, but what he would need is a team built to respond to his disproportionate hits and misses—not a normal one that pretends he's a point guard, or even one where he's paired with a complementary player, as if Iverson were merely singular, not totally fluid.

All of which brings us to Lamar Odom. At this point, the "could've been Magic" has turned from regret on fans' part to a kind of background myth: "That Lamar Odom sure is good, did you know he could've been Magic?" I'd say, though, that at this point in his career the Lakers use him precisely as this kind of x-factor. I'm sure it's a pain in the ass for the coaching staff, but allowing Odom to shape-shift within the triangle, as opposed to cast him as KG-esque New Synthesis, is exactly what's allowed him to finally gain legitimacy. We can only hope that, whatever happens to Iverson next, in cast more in the light of forward-thinking strategy, rather than the Angel Gabriel handing out pizzas in the Stone Age.



ABSOLUTELY ENORMOUS UPDATE:

Per audience request, here's Anthony Randolph's profile. We flipped it on its side and added some pentagrams to make it even weirder than it already is. However, also take note that we've added "handle" and "low TO's", so when you're looking at the other graphs, imagine those on there, too. They should only further affirm what we have discovered to be true.

Shakin' It Loose

There are going to be some major corporate changes around here in the near-future. The ads will be gone, replaced with a more reader-friendly, transparent strategy that basically just encourages you click on a text link to, say, Amazon before doing your shopping. Trust me, it will be unobtrusive and revolutionary. And we've opened our own super-goofy CAFE PRESS OPERATION, in case you want a mug or the un-named item by its very existence embodies the most general sense of "FD." Debate what it is, maybe even buy it. It's a shop, but also a conceptual piece about internet commerce and branding.

This is not an effort to exploit you, or tarnish our good name. Mostly, times are hard, and I'm looking for ways—ideally low-key or hilarious—to maximize the money I can make off of this site while writing for it close to every day.

SOME BASKETBALL: Dwyane Wade is the Monster's Ball right now, whatever that means. What he did to the Knicks last night was both inhuman and inhumane, and yet way-up-in-the-middle-of-the-air radiant. He's like those movies where vampires turn out to like cotton candy and long walks. I know I've been hard on him in the past, but with LeBron having crested for the moment (or at least our discussion of him), Kobe Kobe, and Durant out, it's time we paid some homage to D-Wade. . . with these links other people gave me!

-Ziller is awed by the forceful classiness of Wade's NBA headshot. Since when do they wear suits in these?

-Those band-aids were a major fashion statement, and now they've been. . . BAND! But seriously folks, this look was positively jarring and frivolously assertive, just the kind of thing I've always wanted from his game. I also think these fall more under the Li'l Wayne category of talisman-like adornment, rather than that old Nelly "you know, it just shows I can flip it like that."

-Finally, some wunder-stats courtesy of TZ: "Wade needs 20 more blocks to break the record for most blocks by a 6'4 or shorter player in a season." (SOURCE). Now that's fucking money.