FreeDeMarco, Vol. XL7: We'll Need More Yen

If you're like me, you spent Tuesday afternoon dancing in the rain to Young Jeezy records with DeMarcus Cousins. If you're not, then you didn't, and you missed something tender.

In he strode, a man seven feet if he was an inch. In, too, strode his mother, his handlers, some handlers of the handlers, some random white women who seemed to be daughters and other familial relations of the handlers, and a phalanx of press people trying to get a handle on who was to handle which handler. ESPN was there, too. Of course. Diddy was not. Diddy was late, and the Diddy handler got on the Diddy phone to find out where the Diddy was. He wasn't picking up. Just how important was this athlete event to Diddy if he couldn't be reached? Wait a minute--why was Diddy even involved with athletes in the first place? The consensus landed on "competes for the same women."

On an otherwise sunny day, this storm had gathered suddenly, and it quickly washed away anything that wasn't tied down or cordoned off. The Italian man escorted by his mother and his girlfriend anxiously looked on before running his hand across a linen button up and bolting. In that moment, his hand streaked across the neatly folded crease as his mind arrived at the conclusion that more shopping wouldn't be worth the discomfort. How was he going to get at those summer suits while the storm consumed the one corner where he needed to be? Which salesperson would even notice him? Surely not the Fonzworth-looking motherfucker in his striped pink shirt and paisley bow tie who had drafted in the storm's wake before emerging on the other side to start measuring and accessorizing. Neither would the store manager, her costume chains hanging from her neck as she hung onto the big man, never leaving his side. It was a minor maelstrom; don't be fooled by the soothing wood paneling or the oppressive gentility of acting all bourgie.

Like any volatile summer weather, the storm subsided as quickly as it had swelled. The big man disappeared behind a mirror, the handlers went with him, the white girls got comfortable on the couches, the Diddy to-do was laid to rest with a few key strokes, and suddenly, all that remained were press folks staring at each other, muted Diddy videos on the big screen, and a steady soundtrack of Jeezy, Wayne, and Gucci. The calm came after the storm.



There is a fine line between knowing humor and mocking insult. Almost anything worth joking about forces the distinction upon us, and the NBA Draft may be sport's Aristocrats. For years, the NBA cognescenti have annually celebrated the draft's earnest appeal while also reveling in its absurd pathologies. Forecasting the picks and mocking the fashion are pretty much neck and neck. In fact, Draft analysis has taken on its own, sadly meta form of this comedic duality: for as much fun as we have speculating about how the Timberwolves will be reconfigured, there is almost as much fun generating hysteria for its own sake. The cheering and jeering easily intermingle.

For at least one day, Tuesday was meant to tip the scales back in favor of the earnest. Tired of lame jokes about Chopper suits and sensing the opportunity to facilitate good, wholesome, old-fashioned American opulence, an events company had organized a proper suiting event at the Sean John store on Fifth Avenue in New York. The premise was simple: this year's top picks would come to the House of Diddy, where they would be fitted for a sensible, well-tailored suit to be worn on Draft night. After selecting their pinstripes and matching their ties, the players would then be led through a small flea market of luxury retailers. The players could learn about Hommage shaving kits, Maserati sports cars, Mohegan Sun gambling packages, and Steinway Lyngdorf entertainment systems. The companies participating in the event could hope to earn some new customers.

Now you know why there was an emphasis placed on the word "meant" in the preceding paragraph. Reclaiming the Draft's attendant culture from the comedians who never tire of the sometimes ugly class- and race-tinged humor is an admirable intention. Doing so by asking the players to buy Sean John suits and listen to pitches for $200,000 stereo equipment belies some miscalculation in execution. I have no doubt that Evan Turner may truly want a 105" plasma television on a yacht with hidden surround-sound speakers. However, the absurdity of the entire premise--look at these average Joes buying average suits...and fantastically unobtainable everything else--is inescapable for anyone who will never be transformed into a multimillionaire overnight. Without graduating from college. Before ever reporting to work. Or even turning twenty-one.



And yet, there was dancing.

Lost amid the imposing size of the seven-footer, one DeMarcus Cousins, and the island-nation population that follows him is the disarming realization that DeMarcus Cousins is only a nineteen-year-old. As his giant right hand swallows yours in a handshake; as his stoic expression makes you wonder if the not-so-quiet whisper campaign about his attitude has some merit; as his sheepish posture while ambling around the store suggests that he may not be ready for what awaits him, you realize that this still is a kid. Not even the most thoughtful, measured, detailed Draft analysis serves as an adequate substitute for meeting the players, for seeing them in person.

The mere nature of reading about a Cousins or a John Wall on a blog, to say nothing of The New York Times' website, removes a player from everyday experience and elevates him as a celebrity. In turn, he is dehumanized ever so slightly. They all are. The process is only exacerbated as Draft conversations steal these children from our everyday vocabulary and insert them into the nonce lexicon of the NBA. No one describes his friends as long, questions a coworker for his sticktoittiveness, or wishes that his dad were more coachable. And similarly, no one ever says that DeMarcus Cousins has an innocent smile or is incredibly polite.

He does, and he is, though. That, ultimately, was what stood out most in the Sean John store, and it redeemed an event that couldn't help itself. (The players arrived in courtesy Maseratis.) Had Cousins picked an eight-button suit, it wouldn't have made a difference. Especially not when he stole a moment to dance as the handlers were buzzing about. As so many people got worked up over who was on the door, whether the lighting was OK, and if there was another floor model of the blue-and-cream tie, "Put On" blared over the speakers and DeMarcus started dancing. So did I. I instantly recalled watching the man John Walling, and seeing him celebrate his impossible put-back against Mississippi State. The self-seriousness of adulthood that was captured by all those busybodies, the conspicuous consumption that seems to motivate the Sean John brand--it all stopped as Cousins had a truly earnest moment. The good outweighed the bad for a little bit.



For our continuing FreeDeMarco coverage, check out the serious work Shoals has been putting in over at the FanHouse.

Sit and Think with a Drink about How We've Won

In no way does this make me exceptional, but I’ve reached a point in life during which I am consistently reminded about my age. (To be exceptional, I’d have to be able to fondly recall Adrian Dantley with Yasser Arafat while in an Upper West Side synagogue.)



I refer to childhood touchstones that elicit blank stares from my law-school classmates, among whom important things such as Voltron do not resonate. Playing sports for too long makes my right knee hurt. My favorite music was released about fifteen years ago, when I was in high school. Prospective employers ask me why I’ve already switched careers twice. (To become NBA commissioner. Duh.) Almost all of my long-time friends have recently gotten engaged, married, gay, or gay and married. I am 28 years old.

My early and mid twenties were spent obstinately trying to prevent this time from arriving. I would bristle if anyone referred to me as an adult and cite adolescent children as my emotional peers. A birthday was the most depressing moment of any year. All the while, I quietly conceded the inevitability of aging, and even regarded myself as magnanimous when I realized, early last fall, that upon leaving behind a developed adult life in New York for a second try at high school in Missouri, I was happy to be a grown-ass man. It was the sort of calm revelation that surprises before instantly settling as obvious. I parked a car which I leased in my own name, walked into an apartment fully decorated with furniture I assembled on my own, and willingly opened a book about contracts so that I might get ahead. Measured risk, self-sufficiency, responsible choices--I had arrived.

It’s not all cardigan sweaters, warm milk, and world weariness, of course. I exuberantly run around school in a unicorn shirt on days when my flag football team has a game. I like going to Olive Garden’s never-ending-pasta-bowl nights and telling dirty jokes with the waitresses. The flag of piracy still flies from my mast. And let’s be real: 28 isn’t 78; that’s a destination not even on the horizon.



Romanticizing youth and mourning age are equally easy. Appreciating an ongoing transformation is somewhat harder. That’s why I am taking this moment to welcome back our beloved Association with my enthusiasm, normally so loudly pronounced, somewhat muted by reflection.

The build up to this season has been a quiet time for me. Entrenched stars of the new establishment--LeBron, and Dwyane, and Chris, and Dwight--are thrilling. For a number of them, the questions focus on when they will cross the threshold of all-time greatness. The excitement they’ll offer is assured. Yet the ascendancy (if they even remain ascendant) of these post post-Jordan saviors necessarily implies that they have passed by their predecessors. Predecessors with whose legacy the public remains uneasy, and who will collectively be remembered by history for having carried the burden of redemption after Michael. With this class of tortured heroes in mind, opening night is shaping up to resemble a reunion down the line more than a first day of classes. A generation that defined not only the NBA’s post-Jordan growth but also my own personal transition is coming to its end. This year feels like a gathering valedictory.



There are the accomplished folks, those who adhered to their stated intentions and are celebrated for making it: Tim, now hobbling more noticeably but not quite ready to submit; Kevin, whose protestations to the contrary cannot fully mask the wear and tear; Kobe, with nothing left to prove; Jason, timeless in his own way. Perhaps Shaq (though as the years accumulate, he increasingly seems like his own era, in some ways, both for chronological and stylistic reasons). There are the fuck ups, too. The kids who squandered their potential or never really had any. Some of them won’t even show: Glenn, Keith, Tim, Ron, Steph.

And then there are so many others whose stories defy neat categorization and whose appearances at the function engender polite admiration but also unavoidable disappointment. Think of the ambivalence, the confusion, the mixtures of conditional praise we’ll conjure as we see Ray Ray, Tracy, and Paul again. Or Grant, Sheed, J.O., Vince, and Chauncey. Anyone know if Antoine and Stack are coming? And, of course, Allen. A.I. will be the dude who could show up in any condition, and it wouldn’t be surprising after all that’s been done, seen, and heard.

We are about to embark upon an era’s denouement. Preseason forecasts have made a similar declaration in recent years, but this season is different. To start, the 2009 playoffs were almost exclusively owned by the next generation. Even the old-NBA Celtics were dominated by their emerging point guard, he of this burgeoning oligarchy. Old-NBA Kobe Bryant won, but he played for history. What greater validation could there have been than the immediate, reflexive glances backwards? The Lakers’ title, won with Pau and Bynum, may have portended continued success, but more than anything, it was about Bryant’s legacy.

Moreover, the NBA players drafted in the mid and late nineties have themselves conceded that this will be the end. Roscoe went to Boston to mount a final championship push before KG’s knee fully gives out and injuries and age weather Ray and Paul Pierce to the point of dullness. The Spurs added Richard Jefferson because biding time and playing for the tomorrow of 2010 is apparently not a luxury which Tim Duncan can afford. Vince has embraced third-option status on a Magic team that is almost entirely powered by an engine of the new NBA. Allen Iverson has devolved into a Memphis sideshow attraction. Elsewhere, older stars of the soon bygone era are reliant upon their younger teammates: Chauncey needs Carmelo; Nash and Grant Hill need Amare; Jermaine needs Dwyane; Tracy needs to retire; Shawn Respert needs food. Even Shaq--Shaquille O’Neal!--needs no less than LeBron James.



So I have reached yet another reminder of my age. The suddenly old guard begins to fade along with my youth; the league evolves along with my fan perspective.

Kevin Garnett was drafted during the summer before I entered ninth grade. I was thirteen, and I vividly remember running to the telephone at summer camp to discuss the draft with my father. As any barely pubescent, aspiring NBA savant might have, I diligently regurgitated everything I’d read in the newspaper as though they were my own opinions. “Garnett’s supposed to be really good, and really versatile,” I said. “He’s straight from high school, too. That’s young!” I exclaimed, a full four years away from being draft eligible myself (you know, had I been a better player). I didn’t know it at the time, but Garnett’s arc as a player, like the larger narrative about his generation, would go on to mirror my fan identity.

Weaned on an Association dominated by Jordan and populated by the legendary bumper crop of hall-of-fame players who debuted in the middle and late 80s, as an adolescent I greeted the NBA with wonderment and an expectation of excellence. I assumed that the league’s trajectory would remain on the growth course it enjoyed as my fan consciousness emerged during my formative years.

Over time, my evergreen enthusiasm for the sport mixed with an understanding of the athletic, social, cultural, and market forces surrounding the league. It was natural; I grew up. I remained committed, but I steadily understood a much larger experience that accounted for everything else in the basketball realm. For instance, adoring the NBA was not universal, I learned. Plenty of fans were disenchanted, frustrated, indifferent. Likewise, my take on player transactions, the sport’s mechanics (don’t bring the ball down, big man!), and the business of basketball all grew deeper, adding layers sometimes in conflict.

The NBA is no less fun for me now. I continue to hoot and holler at my television, or evangelize on Twitter about the glory of Chris Douglas-Roberts. But I also see a broader image than the one to which I clung as a child. The officiating can be awful. The sneakers aren’t what they once were. The access to players is much better. And so forth. A panoramic approach affords the opportunity to dwell upon what’s passing while still being excited about what remains going forward.



It has been no different for the generation we will soon lose. Folks looked to Garnett and his peers to continue the work Michael et al. started, growing the sport’s popularity and elevating its execution. The “Next Jordan” basketball hype that seemed to swirl endlessly alongside the manic search for expanding revenue asked this new class of NBA players to meet an unrealistic standard. When stories about prep-to-pros players and increasing athleticism grew stale, when it became clear that Michael was an exception and not a new rule, the narrative twisted. Over time, it cast KG and those of his era as inadequate, no matter how intrinsically great the accomplishments.

Arguing about whether the characterization of inadequacy is just or not has grown tedious. Without judgment, we can likely all agree that the Kevins, the Tims, and also the Mercers, came to the NBA under the weight of great expectations, carved out an epoch with many more shades of gray than expected, and now begin their departure worn by highs and lows. As I said, this progression isn’t so different from that of the innocent fan whose appreciation and cynicism both grow over time, leaving him free to relish the good and understand the bad.

But, for being a vessel; for being a companion; for living our progress--for these things, this group of departing players deserves our attention. These players facilitated growth, served as reliable friends in a way, and were, in part, projections of fandom. They are less heroic but more human. Accordingly, those of my age group surely must take a moment as the NBA again approaches to consider fully what it means for the era of our definition to be winding down. The trumpets heralding a new regal class will still be echoing when we finish.

It Gnaws, We Feed

Anyone remember that post, about two weeks ago, where I proclaimed the Lakers a more realistic, subtle version of FD principles, and likened it to growing up? It pissed a lot of people off, and that was around the time some of these names started showing up regularly in the comments section.

Anyway, I've been watching the Garnett clips again, and came to a parallel realization about the Celtics. All that rhetoric about sacrificing, making a change, being ready, and making no more excuses isn't just about a winning attitude, or good, sound basketball, or embracing tradition. Garnett's only 32, but he's been in the league 14 seasons. We could sit here and argue about if he and Allen are starting to age a little; what's really important to me is that KG, and Pierce, and Allen, got that their time was running out. That's what inspired this championship, as well as any and all changes that we're arguing about: A sense that it wasn't going to last forever.

This wasn't a desperate ring-chase; no need to hang on anyone's coattails yet. As Big Saxmo points out, all three have their flaws and idiosyncracies. They came together in a way that, while not as organic as I might've liked, made each of them into super role-players. Defense was the bedrock, because that's easier to get going right away than offensive wizardry. I'm not sure why everyone's shocked they won it this first season together, since the whole plan was designed to be as effective as possible as quickly as possible.

Which is why, of course, some of you are convinced they'll open things up next season.



At least one or two comments have suggested that I've accused Garnett of selling out. You're right, but is that such a bad thing? Think about how long we've all been fans of KG. Think about all that's transpired in your own life since then. I'm a few years younger than Garnett, but same generation. And as fun as this whole writing racket is, I spend a lot of time worrying about my IRA, toying with the idea of a real job, wondering how soon I'll get certain family health problems, and understanding that a year goes by a lot faster than it did in my twenties. And not to compare doing a book to winning the LOB, but that deal did, in a way, make me feel certified.

Once on WIP (yes, I use this example a lot), the daytime guys were arguing about whether you could rock the jersey of a player much younger than you. Their best one: No middle-aged man needs to be wearing a Darius Miles joint (this was 2002, I think). I'm not saying that my taste in basketball is youth-fetishizing, anymore than I'm willing to cop to its being a backhanded form of cultural studies. Woody Allen was almost ten years older than me when he wrote his essay on Earl Monroe. Some forms of radicalism age gracefully. The beauty of taste is that you're allowed to appreciate, even on some level relate to, shit produced by those of—or from—a different age. Timelessness and all that.

But one day later, and, truthfully, with the season over—and the subjective and objective tension surrounding the Celtics now subsiding—I'm a little less rabid about it. The Big Three, wanted, even needed, their rings. Of course winning is always the point, but this year, there was little room for error or experimentation. The sense of urgency wasn't joyous, it was apocalyptic. It was the kind of discipline in which anxiety plays a large, large part, which is why the vibe of this Celtics season had as much to do with the demons of the past as a brave new future.



Garnett made a choice, and he wants us all to know it. It's not hard to get why he did, why the revolutionary freak of his Minny days might now be game for as much sublimation as possible. That same focus and intensity implied on a macro level. On some level, I can feel the same pressures that drove him in that direction; they're about the most universal thing in all of human experience, and no one's ever said that settling down and raising a family was a bullshit life-path. On the contrary, staying forever young can be embarrassing for everyone involved.

I may prefer the old Garnett, or wish Boston had a more imaginative offense. But past sports, and whatever grandiose symbolic world I may have built out of it, I can now look back and feel Garnett's decision right in my gut. There's ambivalence there, but it has everything to do with being human, and nothing to do with skill sets, length, and when someone does or doesn't scream.

P.S. Check my latest Sporting News column. It's about what this loss means for Kobe.

Life Needs No Fever

I, too love the Hawks, Hornets and other examples of unfulfilled potential, because I can identify with that struggle to get your shit together. But the Spurs are where I want to end up. They're grown. They know who they are more than any team in the league, and aren't plagued with the nagging anxieties and insecurities of youth.—Brickowski

The other day I sent out a frantic email to some associates known and unknown, begging for immediate FreeDrafto coverage. In the wake of the dead Suns, errant Dubs, soon-to-be-asunder Hawks, and be-Larry-ed Bobcat, this league could be running precious low on shit we stand for. Remember how the 2007 draft was supposed to restore the league's legitimacy, as 2003 was supposed to have, too? With very little knowledge of the situation, I wanted to be told that this draft could do that for FD-ness. I felt like Bush, but it was worth it.

But at some point today, I stopped and really thought about the Lakers. Why exactly isn't it a bigger deal to this community that Los Angeles is Finals bound? Forget about them being the ones to overcome the Spurs; on a number of levels, I would've rather seen the Hornets do it. And yet in every single way—my soft spot for this team notwithstanding—the Lakers embody almost everything this site stands for. Moody, dominant superstar? Check. Apositional weirdo long burdened by his own versatility? Indeed. Euro breaking molds? Uh-huh. Competitive style? Certainly—the triangle has never been so lyrical. They have the NBA's only Jew, and its most bad-ass organ of joyousness. Even Phil, whom I formerly despised, has lightened up and turned himself into a perplexing, yet effective, beacon of humor and irony.



(A lot like the Suns, but without the lingering sense that they, like us, might deep down inside be a bunch of losers. Or permanent outcasts.)

I know a lot of people despise the Lakers writ large, or can't help but look at Kobe askance. It's also no secret that I'm a huge Kobe apologist, and think that Odom is infinitely more sympathetic than Garnett these days. Both of these aside, though, why exactly isn't this Lakers team a watershed in FD ideology? There's style, psychology, personality, innovation, intelligence, and even some fairly confusing identity politics going on here. And unlike every other team we've jocked, these Lakers just might win a ring with a team I could watch every day for the rest of my life.

Maybe it's the Bynum factor. At this point, he's the epitome of marvelous hypothetical. He was getting better, more grown, with every game, before he went down. On top of that, he's a towering human being with a spring-loaded step to rival any traditional big this side of Dwight Howard. There will be no extension this summer, as his value remains such an upside-down, gaseous infinity sign. Of course, it would be anyway, injury or no injury. As I detailed elsewhere, Bynum's like a max-contract time bomb just waiting for one healthy season. And within the context of the team, Gasol/Odom/Bynum makes this year's humble formation look like so much fancy chopped liver. These are the days of awe, but there are days much more vast yet ahead.



Or perhaps what bothers some of you is the very notion that this this site's ideals could reach any measure of completion, maturation, or fixity. That's likely what's kept me from overflowing with excitement; whether or not they were the Lakers, coached by Phil, with Kobe at the helm, there would still be something very establishment, or institutional, about them. I honestly can't tell if they've sublimated the technical side of the game and achieved artistry, or assimilated artistry on the way to arch-effectiveness. I'm not sure it matter, or if there's any difference, but something about the decisiveness of that movement rubs me the wrong way. I guess that's the whole "would an avant-garde team be avant-garde if they proved their legitimacy by winning a ring" question.

That's why I found the above quote from Brick so reassuring. I may not wholly identify with the Lakers, or feel fully invested in them. Kobe and Odom are, in some ways, more distant from me as a fan than when they were more flawed and complicated. But damn it, if I ever were to grow up, or have my views of basketball do so, it would look a lot like these Lakers. I don't want to be last year's Warriors forever. Better have this as a shining example than look forward to becoming reactionary in my old age, at least in part due to a sense of embarrassment.

When I was a teenager, I used to look through my friend's father's record collection. It always bothered me that he owned all the late Coltrane, but never listened to it (remember, I was like fourteen at the time). Right then and there, I made a vow to myself that I wouldn't go that route. Obviously, that was stupid and immature, and I don't even think I own Meditations anymore. But—only using jazz here because it's true—Crescent or First Meditations make more sense to me now than they ever did then. I guess I'm saying that, if getting grown has to happen, I'd at least like to know I have a model for it that doesn't cause some sort of inner fracture. Even if I'm not quite ready for it yet.

That's the Name I Was Given

READ SHOALS' analysis of last night just below this post. I, on the other hand, will acknowledge that I didn't really watch the games yesterday because I'm prescient and I don't like to watch games that I don't like the outcomes of. Am more interested in this D'Antoni to the Knicks thing, because I might be the only person on the planet who thinks that it might work out perfectly. Look, the Knicks' players suck. I'm finally going to admit that. And no amount of fastbreaking will change that. But there are some important similarities between Mike D and the Knicks that bode well for the future.

They don't like to play defense. He doesn't like to coach defense.
They've never won anything. He hasn't really won anything either.
They're tremendously overpaid. He is tremendously overpaid.

All of this results in the perfect cocktail of something to prove mixed with a sense of entitlement that may give New York the exact type of swag they need. D'Antoni's rep as a coach players like is also important for facilitating the jettisoning of the Knicks' deadweight players. To put it simply, if you don't jibe with D'Antoni, it's YOUR FAULT, so leave. The only thing I really didn't like about Isiah's hateable-ness is that it gave his crappy players a free pass. There was too much attributional ambiguity. Oh, Zach Randolph has a bad attitude? Blame it on Isiah. Stephon Marbury is nuts? Must be because of Isiah. Eddy Curry is lazy you say? Isiah's fault again. For better or for worse, D'Antoni is so likeable that the players should feel a renewed sense of personal responsibility.



ON TO MORE IMPORTANT THINGS (taking the long road there). You know when you grow up "doing some sort of art." Say, rapping. If you do it for long enough, you reach a certain level of maturity where two important things happen: (1) You realize that you are actually now as smart or smarter than certain people "in that artform" that you formerly looked up to. Like, why would I look to Grouch & Eligh & Sixtoo for insight about life? I've had enough interesting life experience to know that this stuff isn't really that deep. And then (2) You realize that certain people are so good at the particular craft and you admire them so much, that you've actually just been a crappier version of (Posdnuos/Breezly Brewin/Andre3000,etc.) this whole time, and you need to do some serious soul-searching to do something that is specifically and originally YOU to really do good art.

Well, just as I've had these experiences on the music front, the same could be said for my "sportswriting." Similar to rolling my eyes at indie rappers' life insight, it's like, look, I've taken enough stats and methods courses over the past few years to know that John Hollinger's propaganda is essentially a lot of pseudoscience, and at a basic level inferring causation based on correlation. Had Hollinger been around when I was 13 years old, though, I probably would have thought I was reading like, the Steven Pinker of basketball. At the same time, there are those (an ever dwindling number) who get this shit so right, that it makes me rethink my whole agenda in this hoops blogging game. For example, prior to this past weekend, the passage below, from Bill Simmons in response to Ralph Wiley, during one of their legendary conversations, was probably my personal hoops-writing Pledge of Allegiance--the most important thing to me:

You asked why I love the NBA so much, and if it bothers me that some of my readers don't want me to read those columns as much. My feeling was always this: if you write about something passionately enough, and you know what you're talking about, I think most people will want to keep reading no matter the subject. Sometimes you can go too far -- like John McPhee writing about rocks -- but I think there are enough diehards out there, as well as people following the NBA on a rudimentary level who could be coaxed into following it more. So that's always been my hope. I would rather write about something I love than write about something I don't follow.


(Note: One of the biggest problems with the NBA is that there aren't enough quality writers involved. Think about baseball and all the wonderful writers that have tackled that sport -- Updike, Talese, Angell, Cramer, Halberstam, etc. -- along with the dozens and dozens of baseball books that come out every year. But the best NBA book ever was "Breaks of the Game," and that came out more than 20 years ago. In my case, I grew up reading Bob Ryan in the Globe -- his passion made me like basketball even more than I already did. He's always been the role model for me when writing about hoops, as well as for how to get away with a cheesy blazer and khaki pants that are two sizes too short on national TV.)


The biggest obstacle for the NBA has always been the black-white thing -- marketing a league full of mostly black players to a country filled with mostly white people who can afford the tickets. This almost killed the league in the late-'70s (detailed extensively in "Breaks of the Game") and reared its head in the post-MJ Era (and I'm not counting the Wizards years, because they never happened). I always thought Iverson's career was a fascinating litmus test. Here's someone who was clearly the most exciting player in the league from post-MJ through 2002, but he also represented everything that Generic White America hates about the NBA: Tatts, cornrows, in-your-face, loose cannon, the background to match. And I'm not sure how this dilemma is solved.


Yes, the NFL is the best product. Yes, baseball has the history. But I always feel like the NBA should be more popular than it is, and I think part of the reason is that enough quality people aren't writing about it. What other sport combines this much athleticism, drama and unintentional comedy? What other sport has Calvin Murphy's kids, Doctor J's sex tape, Mrs. Christie, Mark Cuban's Weblog, Barkley and Kenny making fun of Sam Cassell in code, the completely insane Ron Artest, J-Kidd trying to seduce the NBA trophy and everything else? Hot damn I love this game.


It still holds up 4 years later, and that was pretty much my inspiration for years, what made me tell my friend Pete in Berkeley in 2004 that I wanted to write a book of the type that Shoals, Recluse, Silverbird, Big Baby, and I just completed. To me, it was pretty much the pinnacle of encapsulating everything I wanted to say about basketball. Until I read this. And this. Many of you may have already seen these pieces (evidently there's one more coming today), but if you have not, drop your Sudoku puzzle, and take some time to read these insane interviews with Britt Robson. I really can't describe the level that this dude is on, and would prefer you just hear it from the man himself. I was lucky enough to grow up in Minneapolis and read his stuff in the City Pages, but it wasn't until I actually moved out of state that I became a regular reader.

Robson, to put it similarly to our friend Kelly Dwyer, is the next epoch. As many of you know has been the beat writer for the Timberwolves since forever, and is pretty much the sole reminder of the fact that Minnesota professional hoops doesn't end with Kevin Garnett. The guy wrote multi-thousand word tomes after every single Wolves game THIS PAST YEAR (can't think of anything more Free Darko than that), discussing the intricacies of Chris Richard's helpside defense and Ryan Gomes' confidence with Coen Bros-caliber intrigue. Just read the amount of truth and substance this guy is dropping and you will remember why you get out of bed in the morning. For me, it's time to reinvent myself.