Fall Over Parade

I find it possibly amazing that Gerald Wallace is in the All-Star Game and Josh Smith should be. We did it. We made it. Our choices have been just. Note: I forgot Durant was a first-time All-Star yesterday because, in my mind, he's been on since Texas. Say that what you will about my love with this game.

Oh wait, Josh Smith didn't get in, it stings me right down to the bone, and you can read all about my feelings and history's folly (committed upon its own head, no less), in this precious column of mine.

I ended up cutting a paragraph that might have been all figurative economics too dry for those parts, so I lay it here. Or at least its essence. Think about this: It took time for hs-ers and Euros (in the wake of KG and Dirk) to become automatic presences in the high lottery. There was still a little bit of lingering skepticism, or at least hesitance. And these were the consensus best few teens the world had to offer. Thus, in theory, in the beginning there was a de facto cap placed on what hs/Euro picks made it in. It was only the cream of the crop, those generally agreed upon as the "next KG" or "next Dirk."

However, it didn't stop there. Once these players moved all the way to the top, the floodgates were opened for the "Maybe Next KG" and "Possibly Maybe Next Dirk." This is how you got Josh Howard and David West going at the end of the first round; high school/Euro picks weren't boom-or-bust by nature, they were made to look this way by a willingness to, in effect, scrape the barrel and push the very logic that had made teams pursue them in the first place. The best ones were gambles on great potential, which had built into it some sense of security. It was much more like the risk built into drafting a college player, just with a different form of assurance. The latter ones gambled without any safety net.

This description is remarkably inexact. But what would have happened if teams had never decided to cross that line and go from the relatively safe teens to those with less and less to recommend them as solid pros? When people talk about some sort of committee that would decide when a player could jump from high school, it seems like what they're really talking about is this alternate reality where all these other prospects never snuck in the cracked door on account of equivocation.

Clay Left Smoldering

New Shoals Unlimited on the linguistic lunacy that is the Most Improved Player award. Also, notice the new Amazon widget to the right: Same "you buy stuff by clicking through here, we benefit" idea, but new approach. We're going to be recommending books, music, movie, whatever we feel is worthy of FD's prized endorsement. If you click through there, feel free to buy whatever you want. But the point is to manipulate you.

Apologies if I've touched on this before, but when you have the same screamed phone conversation with multiple FreeDarko members, it warrants a post. It's agreed around headquarters that, simply put, Gerald Wallace is now scary. Not edgy, exhilarating, or overwhelmingly intense. When you watch him play now, fright nips at each and every fiber of your bones.

Part of it is his appearance. I will never cease to hammer home this "Gerald Wallace is the Predator" meme, because this is what a pop culture/sports analogy should be. Wallace is now a little older, thicker, and yet at the same time broken down and flecked with scars on his arms and shoulders. Gone is the sleek, statuesque specimen who was equally at home walking on air or slamming into the earth. Now, Gerald Wallace looks like the sum of all his heights and collisions—lofty, worn, tough, and always in a quiet frenzy. His dreads creep down the side of his head, where they occasionally come into contact with the plastic mouth guard that's always hanging out in the air.

This kind of adornment seems so out of character that we're taken aback by them. It's mysterious, like a vaguely sinister echo of his warped basketball philosophy and the moments that shaped it. We barely notice tattoos anymore—J.R. Smith and Larry Hughes are practically covered from waist to chin, but it's all in good fun. Wallace, though, exists at the intersection of style and grim reminders. Other useful pop culture references: Star Wars bounty hunters, those elegant tackle boxes with death sitting casually on their brains; every Vietnam movie where heroes get subsumed; eye-liner on radicals in the desert, and the chintzy portraits that follow directly from it.



No shock that this new vibe has manifested itself in—or stems directly from—Wallace's game these days. Gone are the eye-popping box scores of yore, the competition with Smith and Kirilenko to see who could most delight our mightily peripheral group of enthusiasts. Wallace scores less, attacks more sparingly, isn't as frequently streaking ahead on the break or leaping up for the put-back—even as he's continued to get more fluid and guard-like with each passing year. Part of this might be Larry Brown, which is fine, because it works. But it's most certainly not a reluctance to put himself or others at risk (though, it should be noted, usually only doing damage to his own person). Wallace is a lurching, semi-breathing basketball death wish.

Remember when Wade or Iverson embraced contact around to the basket to such an extent that it became an end in itself, and got kind of stupid? Wallace seems to have taken this same attitude toward open-ended, violent motion. And movement, if a difference exists there. He doesn't make plays as often, or sow the seeds of chaos (as said in our book.) Now, he's just kind of there to hit the floor like it was a dunk, go for blocks and steals like an agile wrecking ball, terrorize the court in a way that somehow evinces both more and less discipline. This isn't the hustle player reborn, but the blood and guts of what athleticism means at its best in the league. And it isn't necessarily pretty or inspiring, unless you think Icarus is really fucking cool coming and going.

That's because, while Wallace is by no means a dirty or petty player, the toll he's exacted upon himself is, for a basketball player, almost unprecedented. Four concussions to date, and an insistence on rushing back from a collapsed lung. The lung's actually become a running joke; most guys allude to their limitations with "I felt that in my leg," but for Wallace, the game catches up with him in his ribs and breathing apparatus. Forget the high-flown accounts of potential lost and imagined; in his combination of blazing ability, blatant disregard for his body, refusal to change one bit, and downright earnestness about the whole thing, Wallace is the second coming of Pistol Pete Reiser. As Big Baby Belafonte says, you can't watch him without worrying he's going to collapse or implode at any moment, even as he exudes strength.



I wish I could say that in Wallace, we see a simultaneous acknowledgment of mortality and embracing of life. Instead, he just makes my skin crawl.

Love in Exile

(WARNING: Women's bare asses below. "NSFW" but absolutely necessary here.)

For a good time, watch Kings/Bobcats on a Wednesday night. That which barely need be spoken: Kevin Martin is insanely underrated, quick on his feet and to the basket more like any other top scorer than "next Reggie Miller." Crazy unorthodox with every shot, and plenty of his movements, to the point where I think he confounds even really good defenders. His mechanics are their own language, like Sacramento were a basement he's been locked in for years, but chosen to continue his education nonetheless. Like a cross between dictionaries in jail, Kasper Hauser, and someone who assimilated our Periodic Table of Style on a micro-level. Plus his whole pre-hood, Fresh Prince-era look makes him all the more displaced, foreign, alien. Where else could he exist but the nether-place that is the Kings? That's a true original, or space beast hiding behind the cloak of "the artist" and our over-dependence on reading cues of appearance.

As predicted, Francisco Garcia is vital and just does it all when given confidence-through-minutes. Those announcers' whole "Nocioni and Gooden are the future" talk is serious back-sliding, though I'll forgive them since they obviously don't know shit about Gooden past where he was drafted. It was nice to see that Wallace, once unsung, can now have opposing teams shook from end-to-end after one or two possessions. And what's really funny is that, rather than stalking the floor as a possibility, the mature Wallace is a real presence, having finally married his non-stop grinder's grind with a quixotic string of applied highlights. No one else in the league makes you feel that splitting defenders for a dunk is as much "effort" as "skills," but that's what Wallace has finally become. He doesn't scrap, or hustle–he exerts. Plus, as much as it pains me to make analogies like this, he's become the Predator, right down to the vaguely shamanistic appearance and sado-masochistic tendencies. This is where country and funky opens out onto an atavistic future, impossible to trace far enough back or locate on the horizon. No shit this is the second Predator movie, which is like a combination of Dead Presidents, The Jerk, and Left Behind. I have watched it twelve times.



The point of this post, however, isn't to remind myself that there is joy in visiting old friends and finding out that, on some level, you kind of don't know each other anymore. It's to remind us all that, while Wallace became more guard-like and fluid over the last few years, it's under Larry Brown of all people that's he found some measure of consistency, or at least a way to remain constantly relevant rather than maraud when the chance presents itself. Brown didn't even want Wallace at first, but now, he's created a more focused GW—even if the numbers are down. You could chart a similar arc for Diaw, who irony of all ironies, has seen his career rescued by Larry. Once thought to be the ultimate SSOL player, Diaw's now shown that he's capable of taking advantage of his myriad point-center skills while holding down the middle with some authority. On paper and in person, he's more productive than with D'Antoni, the coach who invented him.

But let's not forget that this maturation is taking place UNDER LARRY FUCKING BROWN, who despite his tempestuous relationship with Iverson has never exactly been one to suffer dynamism or template-busters. It's almost as if, after the utter fail in New York, and the subsequent hit sustained by his reputation—at best, LB was over, if not permanently open to criticism—he's sublimated his outlook, made it less literal. Brown doesn't preach "The Right Way" as a serious of dictums or proscriptions, but as a way players can tailor their individual games to some of the abiding necessities of playing the game of basketball. Which is to say, he's gone from authority figure to mentor, trusted by players who want to win and want to get better because he uses who they are to run common sense basketball.

This may be premature, and based entirely too much on two players. And yet in Charlotte, Brown has the chance for a new beginning; over-sensitive nut-case that he is, or subject to burning out/mellowing with age as are all men who push themselves and others too hard, it's not implausible that he's had a change of heart. It certainly beats phoning it in, which is certainly impossible for a coach like Larry Brown. You could say he's compromised, but I prefer to see it as a great basketball mind having finally discovered the principle of compromise. Or as the ultimate proponent of coach-centrism coming to terms with a player's league, something that's kept Popovich on top for as long as it's been.

Hole or Pile

First off, Ziller has suggested that Thunder/Grizz is the new Bobcats/Hawks, and I'm inclined to agree. I feel like a turncoat for saying this, but as Dr. LIC noted a few weeks back, the Thunder are rad and lose a ton of games. Perfect! And they're about the most god-foresaken outpost of NBA basketball available. The game with Cleveland yesterday was bound to end as it did, but certainly felt like a battle. Westbrook's the wild card, Durant the edgy craftsman, Jeff Green has become Jeff Green. Combine those with a high pick, and Presti might not built another Spurs, but a team with serious mind control powers. Now let's see what he does with a coach, or when Ibaka comes over.

And now, to address something fairly stupid from the comments section, or to wit, something I should've brought up a while ago. In case you hadn't heard, Gerald Wallace lost his faher and grandfather in the last two weeks, and has been caught up in a whirlwind of grieving, driving around the Deep South to attend funerals, missing a few games, and surfacing periodically to absolutely destroy whoever happens to be playing the Bobcats that night. This was contrasted with Josh Howard's collapse, which some have attributed in part to a death in the family. The implication being, in fairly typical sports terms, that Wallace was a man and Howard a fragile piece of cunt. You could also argue that McGrady's personal history, while more dire than Howard's, also fails to display this same stoicism, or ability to use tragedy as motivation. In fact, working against the likes of McGrady and Howard is the cliche, discussed in the book, of sport-as-salvation or escape.



I still believe what I put down in print about how hard it is to separate T-Mac's on-court woes from what's he dealt with away from it, to the point that he seems haunted everywhere. But this isn't some third option, after Wallace's play (either clinging to normalcy, comfort, or taking out the pain on someone) or Howard's inability to deal. I think it's pretty obvious that, just as each death brings with it a completely unique range of emotions—based on the timing, the relationship with the deceased, and the personality of the survivor—the way athletes view sports in times of crisis is just as varied. I know that, the more times "sports" figure in a sentence, the more we expected pre-programmed, cliched, or robotic. Sports is there, and the closer one gets to it, the more he's forced to get in line and choose from a handful of time-honored storylines. Really though, given the range of emotions that go into playing a game, and how much those vary from person to person, why would that element of the equation be any more stable than the loss of a loved one?

If you think basketball is just another job, then fine. Players can either take time away, return immediately and feel better for it, or be noticeably off for months. Or we can see each of these very human instances as a chance to learn something not only about how these people deal with death, but also how they view the game. To be sure, it's a complex, sometimes contradictory, interaction. But it's far more honest than pretending that everyone feels the same way about basketball, a job that inspires great high and lows, deals in huge swaths of stress and release, and couldn't possibly inspire a set number of reactions—especially when intertwined with something as personal as death.

Let Us All Touch Feathers

Storm brewing, one that will, for reasons I don't quite get expect for the world's need to make my life a better place, flip Gerald Wallace to Oakland. Let's not even get into why Wallace helps a team, why Brown should like him (I did that last week, and felt dirty about it), and what a putz Jordan is.

Just cross your fingers that, by Monday, the Warriors will be looking ahead to a starting line-up of Monta/Wallace/Maggette/Jackson/Biedrins. Wright's ready to play, and my fascination with Anthony Randolph has now progressed into Dunwich Horror territory. In the last two days, I've both suggested that he's pulling the strings in Golden State's personnel moves, and convinced myself that he's too bizarre to ever engage the political process. Not in a harmless, kooky way, but something about his deformity as a player and single-mindedness about destroying the world. I fucking hate Family Guy, but that baby in there comes to mind.

But increasingly, the dopest thing about all this seems to be Don Nelson's attitude about all this. It's amazing how effortlessly he straddles the wide, wide borderland between absurdist provocation and Zen-like organics. That's always been his style as a coach, but talking about personnel, it's the same. Nelson's dangling Harrington out there like trash, which is of course exactly the wrong way to put a guy out on the market. He claims to be largely indifferent to whom they get in return, as long as he's good. Is he daring other teams to bid low, or just confident that he'll get talent regardless of the usual hoops he's supposed to jump through? Never mind that he's working with a failed front office and is forced to dictate moves from the margins of resistance.



When this new player shows up, does Nellie anticipate just throwing him out on the floor, gauntlet-like, and demanding everyone respond to this new stimulus? Or is this the "give me athletes with some skill and they will conquer the world" credo that fuelled the 2006-07 team, the one that makes him even more elemental than D'Antoni and more hands-off than Phil? The ultimate test of this might be, with a super-charged line-up, saying "fuck it" and installing Monta at the point whenever he gets back. That could either force everyone to adjust in creative ways, perhaps with Nelson's input, or burn the building down and leave no other option but to gallop through the ashes and send a message through the hills that way. It could well be his defining, and most triple-reverse masterful, hour.

I don't get why Harrington is so attractive to New York, except that he's better than Curry for D'Antoni's system. It gets tricky if the Knicks have to part with, say, Lee or Chandler to get this done. Given what I know about the team's plans, that seems like a deal-breaker. Could Wallace end up on the Knicks somehow? I'm not about to break out the Trade Machine, but dare I say that D'Antoni's more interested in passers and shooters than another Amare-like hell-raiser. Although, to be fair, Wallace is more like an Amare/Marion hybrid; still, his overall impact on a system would be more like Stoudemire. Plus, I'm assuming this is the kind of D'Antoni team that players have to assimilate, rather than one that assimilates them, and that's not Wallace's strong suit. The Warriors, on the other hand, would be miles away from even considering that fine distinction.

Apologies if this is stuff you've already. Here's a new Quotemonger. Also, R.I.P. to this dude:



I would include an obit, but they all mention the Black Keys. And my special bond with him lost just a little when I realized his surname wasn't "Meyer." But whatever, that first LP is getting buried with me.

UPDATE: Is it preposterous for me to think that, after Tuesday, sports/politics might be forever changed?



(h/t Shanoff)

All the Wheels of Destiny

First, matters of business:

-Review in today's Play. I refrained from typing that in all caps.

-I don't think we promoted David Wingo's "Macrophenomenal Anthem" enough yet. So listen!

-For whatever reason, the book is temporarily no longer available on Amazon. But there are other options! (UPDATE: Appears to be back.)

Last night was about as rad an evening of basketball as I could mortally hope for. Despite the endless vistas opened up by League Pass, I still try to stick to one game, beginning to end, and usually only one per night. That's about all my brain can stand—I am that super-sensitive, and that easily distracted. But yesterday, I managed to successfully flip back and forth between Hawks/Sixers (which I broke off an Obama volunteer shift to catch) and Heat/Bobcats. And then finish it all off with the last quarter of Bulls/Grizzlies. It was somewhere between the channel-surfing that some are capable of using League Pass for, and seeing it as a chance to create an alternative network slate.

Believe it or not—more me pinching myself than preaching to the converted of this site—I anticipated Hawks/Sixers like it was a "real" game. The Hawks are on the verge of being taken seriously, while I thought Philly's second-half self-discovery in 2007-08 was pretty crude. Brand makes them better, no doubt, but do they inspire fear, or will they be continuing to find their way, both with their new superstar and a strategic approach that needed some fine-tuning. Not to get all recap-y here, but I think Thaddeus Young might be the key to this team's coherency. One more bit of hyperbole: He's what they wish Iguodala could bring to that attack offensively, shooting well and attacking the basket with ranginess and control. Oh and also, he might also be what a lot of us still hope the Hawks got in Marvin, or at least a slimmer version. And this is a cliche for PF's, but Brand is definitely trimmer, and capable of running.

The Hawks, on their end, were a total wreck, not in the least because Smith looked lost and Johnson didn't get off immediately. Twenty-three point deficit at one point. But then—in no particular order—Josh started causing mayhem, which in turn frees him to make threes like they're not forced, and Johnson snuck in there and started hitting shot and after shot. The engine for the Hawks success is pretty simple: Smith has to get himself going, almost internally, by kindling that fire of non-methodical insanity in him that's keyed off by a steal/dunk combo, or something equally outliandish. It's like he's got his own inner crowd to appeal to. At this point, though, that's what it takes to get him in some sort of groove, albeit one that resembles a rash of bad decisions and impetutous leaps. The difference is, he's got that zone where they aren't forced, where the risks and illogical "huh?" moments are actually his natural rhythm. The problems start when you see him try and follow the kind of script a coach can read to you. Frustrating, I'm sure, but he's a player who needs to erupt in the worst way to matter.



Johnson, on the other hand, sneaks up on you. That's no surprise. But it's also striking how much the Hawks' momentum—incidentally, they ended up coming back and winning this one—is tied up in the Smith/Johnson dynamic. They feed off of each other, but it's not clear if Johnson steps in only when Smith fails utterly, or sneaks in when he see Smith getting off a little, and providing some cover (and needing counter-balance?). I dare say that, whether in success or failure, Smith is the catalyst, but that Johnson is far more reliable, coming through when Smith has either bottomed out or started to really freak out. We can debate the fine points of this, but there's some new kind of metaphysical inside-out game going here. Chaos/order, or something, in both concert and competition. The funny thing is that, by the end, you get them starting to converge. Johnson's looking more and more like someone with twelve sneaker deals, while Smith's settled down a little, deferring to JJ, and exists within some known structure.

Bobcats/Heat wasn't competitive, but represented the revenge of a few key points. Gerald Wallace was the Gerald Wallace of old, absolutely indomitable and yet throwing himself around like the lowliest role player of them all. A joy to watch. And what's more, I'm beginning to think he won't end up in LB's doghouse much. He plays hard, makes that extra effort, fights to get into the paint for buckets, and now has a fairly effective outside shot that he deploys with some prudence. That's the Right Way updated for today's modern audience. That team still has troubles, not in the least the fact that few players are as uniquely suited to this synthesis as Wallace. I also find it weird that GW defers to Richardson as the number one option. So best case scenario, the rest of the team struggles to make Brown happy, wins games with defense, and Wallace blazes away the whole time much to our heart's content.

I simply cannot take my eyes off this Heat team, and not just beacuse I picked Beasley too high in our fantasy draft (no Simmons—that was full disclosure). Dr. LIC described them as "scallywags," and while I don't quite know what that means, it captures some of the danger, strangeness, pathos, and stuck-on-a-boat-dying-of-scurvy-but-still-playing-dress-up quality of the team. I know some of you will accuse me of being a faggot for saying this, but Wade has lost all of that robotic quality I once so hated about him. It's not just that he's aggressive, almost recklessn at times—he really plays with feeling, like the whole thing's taken personally. You can tell it by the times he goes out of his way to make a statement dunk. Sometimes he's toying with the opposition, sometimes he's just managing his own emotional equilibrium in the hull of a lost cause. But if there were some kind of index that tracked—pardon my extremely un-PC nomenclature— "soul," in the "some have it, some don't" usage that's more refined and basic than evoking afros and slang—he's passed LeBron at this point. Maybe "soulfulness" is better.



I have no idea what's going on with Marion, who half the time seems intent on feigning decline, or a kind of confusion we rarely saw from him in Phoenix. Chalmers + Wade = solid, and I wish they'd euthanize Marcus Banks. Sometimes this team feels like you're watching something dramatically new, and others, it feels so bootleg, so corrosively silly, that you'd best turn away before you use lose all perspective all the game. Like the glorious 2006-07 Warriors without the undeniable fireworks.

The real draw for me, though, is Beasley. After that crappy opener, he's turning into a frightfully efficient scorer, living off a combination of mid-range jumpers and strong moves to the hoop that usually involve some added element of finesse or smooth body control. It's almost like he took the "Beastley" game of K-State and shut off the NBA switch. What's startling about him isn't how easily he gets inside, or how hard it is for defenders to anticipate whether he's going hard or soft, but just how much better his judgement seems game-by-game. Still not much more than a scorer who grabs a few boards, and Amare-like, blocks some shots just by being himself. But he's deathly effective at what he does, and I've got to say, at this point looks a hell of a lot better than Durant did this early. And Durant was the messiah. Not to sound like a one-note pony, but I could see Beasley emerge as the kid cousin of today's more versatile, advanced Stoudemire, but with even better people skills. What I wonder is just how much he's changed his game, versus his college narrative of arrogance and egotism falling away.



Which brings me to Derrick Rose, as Ritchie had already suggested I do before I got daylight savings time straightened out and got out of bed to check the computer. Point guards are the new centers, Rose is undeniably for real, and has instantly made Luol Deng whole and Tyrus Thomas not a youthful mistake we have to keep apologizing for. But what fascinates me is how, while Beasley seems to play a less "NBA" game than he did in college, perhaps out of necessity, Rose somehow made a quantum leap to seasoned, splashy pro point guard without barely thinking about it.

That's assuming a lot, but I definitely get the sense that, while Beasley is going the extra mile to show he's not a profligate or time-bomb, as witnessed from game-to-game, Rose just showed up, surveyed his surroundings, and uncorked a whole new dimension to his game. Granted, I didn't watch a ton of Memphis, but I do know that with the Bulls, from second-to-second Rose feels like a top-shelf, in-command, ultra-creative PG—as Dr. LIC hyperbolically put it, a cross between Paul and Williams. Beasley's toned down his game and affect (the threes have disappeared fast) to prove to the NBA he respected it; Rose sees the opportunity to step up and assert himself, since he's in the optimal position to join an elite class.

Rose coming to Chicago isn't quite, as Ritchie suggested, on part with Obama coming to D.C. Sorry. I also don't think that the Bulls have a coherent enough rotation to really make the most of his presence. Look at how carefully constructed New Orleans is, or how the Jazz made a leap last year just by adding Kyle Korver. And I do think that, even if we had gotten to see Oden/Durant unfold, it looks like it would have been a little underwhelming, especially as each would've been deficient at the other's primary end of the court. Rose and Beasley aren't comparable, since Rose is franchise material, whereas Beasley looks to be a force you then have to match an infrastructure to. But if this first week is any indication, two of the raddest players to watch in the league are last summer's 1/2 picks, who are tremendous to watch right now, and whose growth will decide exactly what happens with their imperfect/idiosyncratic teams. Show me a more tantalizing season-long storyline and I'll quit this business right away.

FD Guest Lecture: Very Cross-Eyed But Extremely Solid

A report from Bobcats camp, by Avery Lemacorn. He's previously posted here about the Hornets and NOLA's revival.



There's the dad with the swishy athletic pants. We were just making fun of kids for wearing it, then we step behind a gray-haired man, corralling his kids into the 5,000 person stadium at the University of North Carolina-Wilmington. Maybe the words "training camp" inspired some type of slovenliness in the dad, making him reconsider his clothing options. Should I dress respectably or should I bring my tear-offs? Tear-offs it is, because they might ask me to run into the game.

And after the drills start for the Charlotte Bobcats at their scrimmage game, I can catch a glimpse of how that mentality might enter the average fan's subconscious. The masses don't know these players. No one shouts hysterically when 10 young millionaires and 5 six-figure men stroll into the smallest gym they have seen since middle school. The only other cheers come on a couple of windmill dunks made by any player, not Wallace or Richardson or Okafor. So the everyman asks, "Who do I cheer for, who do I follow?" It might as well be anyone.



Which is possibly the reason Larry Brown took this job. While last year was more Planters than pleasure, this year seems to have a relaxed professionalism, not the steady worry from Sam Vincent about how a real head coach was supposed to act in front of Michael Jordan. This is Larry Brown's team. Short and gray, the players look down at him, not away ignoring his edicts. They respect him. And this Charlotte Bobcats could be his Pistons from earlier this decade, when no one believed a team based on defense with no discernible stars could win. There are no immediate egos on the Bobcats, no petulant Stephon Marburys, or shaken Eddy Curry's. No unsteady Luol Deng's or legacy-stricken Dirk Nowitzki's to confuse matters. Instead it's a team of players willing to follow a coach that has won on every level, malleable to his stringent desires. This is Larry Brown's team.

During drill weaves, there is nothing to notice really, except for Adam Morrison. He's back, from an ACL injury. I point him out to my wife. She remembers him from the Gonzaga days on television, with the close-ups of his sketchy moustache. "That's him really?," she asks. "He looks hurt." Indeed he does. He barely stretches with the rest. He limps downcourt unsteadily with a half-jog. It was noted in the local paper earlier that Morrison has rounded out his mustache to a full goatee, and grown his hair out halfway down his back. It's tied up in a ponytail. With seemingly more in common with your car mechanic than anyone on this team, I'm pretty sure Morrison has assumed the style mantle of Scott Pollard. Except Pollard is/was a cult hero, not a top three pick as another questionable choice by MJ.



Speaking of, he is nowhere to be found. Technically, he is a local boy, having gone to Laney High School, the scene of the crime, the place where "Michael Jordan got cut." There are no streets named after him, no bridges, not even a Boys and Girls Club with his moniker. The only monument I've ever found is inside the local city museum, with his kindergarten graduation certificate, and a pay stub from his days as a busboy at a local diner. Perhaps he's wanted those things back and never knew where to look.

During the scrimmage (Felton with the starters, D.J. Augustin with the back-ups), the Pistons model is even more evident. Sean May is looking svelte, and as more than one seasoned Carolina observer notes, this is the best they have ever seen him. May is actually slim, and now in his fourth season, hopefully he can play a full year. The Brown system calls for a Rasheed figure, and May takes and hits shots from around the free throw line. Only once or twice do the blocks come into play, and only after rebounds. Brown was looking for a guy to extend his reach, and May at least seems willing to try.

On the other end, another unlikely figure for this role emerges: Alexis "Sticks" Ajinca. Though his legs look like rebar, he almost takes May shot for shot, both ending up in double figures, with several makes from around the three point line. And it's clear him and Augustin have done more than just toting around stupid luggage. They run picks off one another, and Augustin favors Ajinca over most of his other scrub teammates. It will not surprise me when phrases like "sleeper pick" and "underrated" are bantered around by the pundits for Ajinca.

Wallace, tonguing a bright orange mouthguard like a chew toy ("Is that thing really hanging out of his mouth?" asks my wife) soon grows bored covering Morrison, and starts to float. Brown, apparently emphasizing "team" defense, brings Wallace up for half-court traps, which still doesn't prevent Wallace from flying in for a rebound or a loose ball floating towards the dance team. As the Dog Whisperer likes to say, Wallace needs exercise, discipline, and a job, so Brown has him on the hunt, and pretty much free to roam where he wants to go (or maybe Adam Morrison can't shoot and can't defend). He even brings the ball up a few times, now totally free from his concussion inducing power forward excursions.

All the while, it's clear Felton is passing early and taking supreme care of the ball just not to lose the starter's role. His first dump is always to J-Rich, who then decides what to do. In a few fast breaks, he throws alley oops. Augustin, perhaps not surprising, seems exactly like he did last year at Texas--a complete dictator or perhaps a dutiful floor general, depending on your outlook. He drives deep, getting tangled with May and Mohammed. He throws last ditch passes out of bounds. He never looked frustrated, just a bit out of sorts with what to do with the likes of Morrison, who couldn't make a shot. Towards the end, he instead preferred Shannon Brown and Jared Dudley, who almost rallied the second teamers back to victory along with Ajinca.



My mind begins to wander. I do want to see Augustin, but I'd prefer a lineup of Wallace and Richardson as guards, Ajinca as the out of place 7 footer, and May and presumably Okafor on the blocks. And in a classic Chad Ford overindulgence, for some reason I do believe Wallace and Ajinca could be the mentally stable but physically disruptive manifestation of Howard-Nowitzki. At least it's there in my mind, for a few seconds.

Surprisingly, the Gerald Wallace of the second team is fellow Bama alum Jermareo Davidson. He even has slight dreadlocks like Wallace now. Though making only a fraction of what Morrison does, he has significantly more impact. He is the man for the second team flying through for the putback. He is the guy Brown calls up for the trap. He is the wild and goofy one, joking around and looking slightly physically discombobulated.

J-Rich fits the Rip mode. Augustin/Felton perhaps excel beyond Billups and whatever backup they've had. Wallace has the Prince defense, plus the lackadaisacalness that makes him more fun to watch. Nazr has the Nazr role, which should have been a backup role all along, so hopefully Okafor will be an upgrade. And May will function in the practical Rasheed role (for now), while Wallace takes over the jawing and athleticism. Fill that in with a decent bench of Dudley, Matt Carroll, probably Ajinca, and hopefully Davidson, along with wherever Augustin and Nazr fit in.

Morrison will, Lord willingly, be traded for a halfway decent center and then left to deal with his inner demons of the "way things should've been" and his complex, but more-friendlier-than-ever-imagined relationship with JJ Redick. Also, he will find his own unique kinship with those that wear athletic synthetic tear-offs to sporting events, yet remain firmly on the bench.

AT LAST

Feels like I've been waiting all of FD's life for this to turn up.

Proceed below for some Quentin Richardson projection.

UPDATE: Holy crap. Via Zillz, Gerald Wallace with some choice quotes on his future in Charlotte, and the devil that's taken over there:

"My agent called me and he had talked to (GM) Rod (Higgins) and those guys ..." Wallace said. "I said, 'Well, I'm in Alabama with my kids. Call me if I've got to move.' That was it."

"He's trying to break me out of the one-man defensive thing," Wallace said. "He wants all five guys to play defense. ... If you go for those steals and miss and the way you're going to leave your teammates hanging."

Of course, I've edited out the parts where Brown suggests that Wallace is his kind of player, because I'd never believe anything that snake says for a second. And hearing that Wallace is being asked to stop being a "one-man defensive thing" positively sinks my ship.

"FREE DARKO" was stupid, "FREE AMIR" only a matter of time. But at this point in his career, "FREE GERALD" would be as big a downer as I can imagine.

Every New Generation Needs a Generation

Note: This for some reason took me forever to write and the pictures suck. So view it accordingly.

Nothing is more American than FreeDarko, or at least the "freedom" part. Distracted by the latest spat over whether we are or are not awash in racist connotations? Revisit our first-ever post. Here, Shoefly laid out the profound connections between letting unusual, individualistic potential loose, a responsibility that falls on both said individual and the community he would inhabit. Note: I will never get why "community" is all-American, while "collective", as a purely technical term, signals Stalin.

Ordinarily, though, I don't think we've ever felt cause to explicitly connect this most raucous of national milestones with this site's mission. And yet today, it's not the distinct John Adams vibe I'm getting from people in the wake of the Sonics compromise, or the hyphenation quandry that explains my devotion to Stern, that has me typing now. No, it's a cause that could not be more near and dear to this site's unspoken premises: Making sure that Josh Smith and Gerald Wallace are free.

We all dig those Atlanta Hawks. That inadvertent experiment in god knows what, set, however haphazardly, against a city that's come to embody a certain kind of African-American prosperity. If only the team were actually a part of Atlanta, it would be all sorts of versions of the American Dream. Sadly, though, this franchise is hog-tied by litigation, and seems unaware of just how lucky it's gotten over the last few drafts—and still can't boast any intelligible road map for the future. Freedom isn't Janis Joplin's whiny hedonism, it's casting off old truths with a bold new vision. Thus, Josh Smith, the everywhere-at-once, gloriously inconsistent terror who defines the Hawks to those in the know, needs to move on.



That Philadelphia is the cradle of liberty really only figures superficially into this story, but I'm just as wary of (igniting a fire in the comments section by) saying that Smith's swagger and highlight-crazy game could help make the Sixers mean as a team what Iverson himself meant. The Hawks are anarchic, dangerous, the impossible dream that we secretly never want realized. They are a glorious, shambolic mess, full of spirit but explaining exactly why this country needed a Continental Congress.

While I have called Smith "a retarded LeBron," he lacks Bron's ability to plop down in the middle of anywhere and turn his whim into precept. Smith seems at times limited by both his strengths and his weaknesses; He doesn't quite know exactly when, or how, to take advantage of his abilities, many of which haven't quite come into focus yet. He's not Tyrus Thomas, in that you can discern the faint outlines of a multi-faceted player. But this isn't freedom, it's aimless ideas and glints of direction. We prize this player not for the confused mess he currently is, but for what he could become. Potential is the potential to be freed, which requires both the right assets and a sympathetic setting.

Here's where the Sixers enter the picture. Last season they were, in some senses, even more deranged than the Hawks. But, as with Smith, there was an understanding that this version of the team was still coming into focus. You have Andre Miller, gradually becoming the player his stats have always suggested he was. Mo Cheeks, a "players' coach" coming into his own as a leader and basketball thinker. Ed Stefanski, a GM who watches games. And, most importantly, a willingness to put the "Pippen-esque" Andre Iguodala in his place, maybe even let him walk, and instead put the future on the shoulders of the enigmatic Thaddeus Young—and, ideally, Smith.



That's what freedom really is. Not just a chance to run wild, and ignore the outside world except for when it gets in your face and needs a spanking. The Hawks this spring were a freakish feel-good story, not a cornerstone of something new; they were wacky outsiders, not crusaders for the other side. Not to mention that the team had been built accidentally, mismanaged horribly, had no institutional culture to speak of, and had a head coach who may or may not have had the slightest clue what was going on. They were a happy accident, not providence in action because it does occasionally take such sides. So yeah, I take back the Afghanistan comparisons. This was no prophecy, just maybe one of the monsters that shows up as a secondary character.

Maybe the Hawks will match—no matter what happens to everyone else on that roster, a Johnson/Smith tandem is at least now a source of some national interest. But something clicked in my head when I saw Smith in Philly: That team needs him to realize its ideals, and he needs it to become more than a fever dream in Nikes.

The Wallace situation is a hell of a lot more straightforward. Last season was a mixed bag for Multiplicity: It took some time for him and J-Rich to adjust to each other, but once they did, the team turned into a minor small-ball outpost. Wallace looked more guard-like all year, and Richardson, if you'd forgotten, is one of the league's best rebounding SG's (something often obscured in Golden State). Armed with a competent running mate, and now able to both do more and not feel compelled to do it all, Wallace was, if not a poor man's LeBron, than a lesser version of what the Sixers (or Hawks) are hoping Smith will become.

Then came the concussion, after which he never quite looked the same. When I watched him in person, Wallace looked tentative. Earlier in his career, he'd been spacey, but now he seemed averse to what he could do if he really sunk his fangs into the game—not simply unsure of his options. He came back too fast, and I was hoping he'd be back in full for this season.



And then, Larry Brown, who is largely to blame for my irrational attachment to David Stern, comes to town. Wallace represents the future; Brown, the past. You'd think he'd admire Wallace's fearless hustle, and yet before the draft, there the team was, shopping him for T.J. Ford. Certainly, this does not bode well for the next year in Charlotte. We should expect to see either a lesser version of Wallace, or perhaps one whose confidence is wounded. Simply because, while Brown could build his usual edifice up around Iverson, Wallace is a structural challenge to it, and one who encroaches on LB's most cherished ideological territory.

Were Wallace just a bundle of activity, Brown could convert, or surbordinate him. Unfortunately, the clarity of his mature game poses a threat. If Josh Smith can symbiotically engender freedom in Philly, then Wallace's experience is kryptonite to Brown's tyranny. Those who hate freedom hate it not in the abstract, or as an absolute, but as a process of community and context that will forever remain imperfect, fluid, and for this, a true participatory activity.

Leave Me Alone

Some external links of mine:

-More Quotemonger

-A short but crucial Sporting Blog post, wherein I finally figure out the Rockets. If they're animated not specifically by athleticism, or insanity, or skill, could their identity come down to Morey's statistical background?

-Welcome back, Gerald. He should be retiring but instead he comes back sooner than expected. I have a question for all of you: I know that this latest concussion came by getting thwacked with a big man's elbow. But haven't at least two of the other ones just involved him falling out of the sky? Why don't other contact-happy high-flyers have such bad luck landing? Have Wade or Iverosn ever sustained concussions?

Thank you.

Pram Magazine

Dark, dark times by the fountain of Shoals. For one, my laptop/couch set-up has finally caught up with my hands, arms, and wrists, and I'm trying to make a lifestyle change before it's too late. Also, I've been watching 2-3 episodes of Dexter a day, and now I keep hearing the "shit's ominous" music and a Michael C. Hall voice-over in my head. Hence the inactivity.

But let's not underestimate the degree to which the Gerald Wallace concussion has fucked with me. You think it's sad that Yao's out? At least he's not—gulp—being forced to consider retirement. The Pete Reiser-esque style points for this are off the charts, but let's be real. As a fan, this is really dismal. No less troubling is the "he must change his game" mutterings I've heard from the AP. Wallace has become far more rangy and guard-ish this season; it's not about that. It's not even about going to the hoop hard and inviting contact, the culprit in Dwyane Wade and T.J. Ford's respective stuttering careers. No, Wallace is being asked to turn off his motor. It's the only time in NBA history that it's been suggested that a player try less hard.

Oh, lest someone call me self-absorbed, GET WELL SOON GERALD!!!!!

Anyway, I know that with the Suns reconfigured and reeling, the Positional Revolution may no longer be relevant. But in a way, this Wallace injury is the dark side of that trend, what happens when it's stumbled into or falls into the wrong hands. Read this Rick Bonnell post, which turns Wallace's head problem into a question of his spot on the floor. Part of me wants to scream "reductionist" at it—both for the sake of GW's wonder and all that he represents—but this last, Moore-administered blow falls soundly in this category. Watch the tape: He's in the paint, guarding a big man one-on-one. Hitting the floor frequently is one thing, as is dunking a lot in the lane. I hope those don't have to go. Here, though, we have a plain example of why, on the most primeval level, small ball can be a terrible idea.



Speaking of which, the Rockets. Dr. LIC has already let us see his opinions on Yao; some of you commenters have me slightly amped about the Rockets going small, a lot because T-Mac's looked great lately. But let me make a true cofession: Rafer Alston drives me nuts. He alone keeps me from regularly watching Houston, even when I lived there. He's like a poor man's Jason Williams, or one of those nineties Knicks guards if he weren't on the nineties Knicks.

I wouldn't say I irrationally dislike the guy, like I do Shane Battier; if anything, he's one of the most gracious interviewees I've ever heard, and everyone I know who has dealt with him says he's great. It's just his game. It bugs me. Do any of you have a player who poses a similar stumbling block for your NBA consumption?

And I'll end with a very, very rough idea that might piss someone off. I've been thinking a lot about athlete's endorsements of Obama, and whether in this case, their voices matter more in politics. Oden's on board, Baron Davis has spoken up, and I suspect there will be more. Usually, athlete politics only get noticed if they're extreme. Otherwise, no one listens, and there's a functional church/state split in place. Also, I am by no means assuming that every NBA player will vote for Obama, or vote at all.

Here's the thing, though: Obama could be our real life FBP. Athletes are extremely high-profile African-Americans, in a business that, like it or not, is intensely racialized. I wonder if, for better or worse, they will have more pull—or at least have their endorsements taken more seriously, and them allowed the right to be political voices. Not because Obama plays basketball or whatever, but because an Obama election would, to some degree, end up being about race in America. And for many Americans, athletes are a big part of that puzzle.

Behind The Lead Curtain

Say welcome to my weekly Sporting News column. In this first addition, I wonder exactly what the value of a swingman is, and then blame it all on people who don't acknowledge Gerald Wallace. Also, don't miss this post, where I start to come to terms with Marion's exit. Seriously, these things are fun!

But more importantly than all of that, you can now—for reasons having to do with accountability and professionalism—know my real name. So knock yourself out with that one, but don't go thinking that "Bethlehem Shoals" hasn't taken on a life of his own. Or that I can even control him anymore. He hang glides, I don't touch the stuff.

Have had extensive plastic surgery since that photo was taken, though. So good luck tracking me down by sight!

So We Can All Be Free

I'm running around Portland, trying to play real reporter for SLAM. As much as I fancy myself the [insert fancy sports writing dilettante here] of NBA coverage, by the end of today I'll probably be better known as its Fran Drescher.

So in the interest of the pain inside me, and whatever pain I may cause others, here's a bunch of photos of Gerald Wallace as a kid. I would link to the Amir Johnson candids I put up earlier this season, but wait...THEY'RE GONE FOREVER. Seriously people with blogs (the textless, whip-smart elegance of TYI excluded), back up your images. That's what I'm doing here, and tacitly daring Flickr to do its worst.

And how could I not, when I have these to share with you. Some forms of community are bigger than social networkings reticulated bird-brain. We have the ether on our side. They have only mice and switchboards.











Oh, and if you think this shit is creepy or stalky, obviously you've never tried to write a book chapter about a fairly obscure NBA players. The woodwork falls to pieces and you stand in the presence of unlikely relics.

Anyone in the media room at tonight's game, holler at me. I look like space.