Vocals First, Drums Later

Here at FreeDarko, we're all about weird stuff no one knows or cares about, even though they should. That's why I want to talk about the latest Old Spice ad, featuring Ray Lewis. Actually, I don't want to talk about the campaign, or Lewis (although it's amazing he never won an MVP). I'm amazed at how much this resembles the best kind of work Wieden+Kennedy used to do for Nike. Then that stopped; players wanted to be taken seriously, Jordan cast a long shadow even in retirement, the NBA had an image problem, and there simply wasn't space for either fun or mischief. Even those Roswell Rayguns ads haven't aged so well. But here we have Ray Lewis, an older athlete who no one associates with playfulness, from a sport known as the No Fun League, in a truly bizarre spot that even makes a gratuitous, if compelling, one-line commentary on fantasy sports. The whole commercial becomes that for one second, in fact, and then it's back to the fun house.

Yes, I know that all this going against the grain might be exactly why this ad was possible, and part of why it works so well -- and would work in far clumsier hands. However, the irony is that, with Ray Lewis and football as premise, or the foundation, W+K are able to simply port in the kind of ad we once might have seen from Nike. Note: "The LeBrons" or the "Book of Dimes" are among the last spots in this tradition, before James's ads set out simply to prove that he wasn't a clown. We've been down this road a million times: Advertising with personality helps the NBA, whether or not the people in charge realize this. The Hyperize joint was an encouraging sign. Still, seeing an athlete used like this and have it be a football player -- much less advertise basketball products -- is a real bummer. It's the medical marijuana, or struck-down Prop 8, of a great advertising tradition.

Semi-related and probably deserving more space: There's a misconception floating around that FD likes underdogs. We don't. We like star players, weird players, and players who aren't afraid to be candid. We are also huge snobs who all cut our teeth in various realms of music snobbery. When players we jock, like Julian Wright, turn out to suck, it's an embarrassment. We're looking to catch the next big thing before you do, celebrate the unjustly ignored forces, or pick up on the glorious outliers who just might sneak in and transform the sport in small ways. We love potential. But potential, as it should be, is a burden -- for players in real life, and in terms of the way this blog views them. We don't root for lesser souls; we're all about those who deserve to be, or become, something rare and cunning. A screw-up or drop-out isn't FD, he's the antithesis of it. This isn't Slackerball, it's about making sure we're up on the best the league has to offer. J.R. Smith? He's not a patron saint, he's the prodigal son.

Secrets Revealed

Everyone wants to know what drug—"drugs", as that interview lady may have let slip tonight—Chris Andersen was into. All of them would be funny, for different reasons. However, I think this weird T3 graphic inserted into the halftime show might actually hold the answers. If you didn't know, it's a biometric scan. And I'm guessing ESPN didn't realize that, if you perform the calculations already underway above, the truth emerges. They narrowed it down to three in the script, too, but don't be fooled: Experts knows that many, many more substances, and sub-substances, are contained in the little lines and symbols.

More important: My J.R. manifesto for tonight over at The Baseline. Let's see how that audience deals with my religious leanings.

What Happened to That Boy

The least FD thing about me is that I hate J.R. Smith. Hate him. Despite my predilection toward the Julian Wrights of this world, despite a lifetime spent riding for Scottie Pippen and Tracy, despite my celebration of players who don't so much challenge orthodoxy as introduce their own, I nonetheless carry around an almost ruthless insistence on basketball efficacy. Your shit had better work, or else it becomes less a style, or an innovation, and more a gimmick. Gimmickry is for Asher Roth, Sarah Palin, and Ricky Davis. Like anyone, I can fall hard for the seductive potential of athleticism applied in new directions, and as such, I can wander down the wrong path for some time. But I always come back to the sole criterion from which I never deviate: does your shit work?

J.R. Smith hasn't worked. Year after year, I've been told to brace myself for the coming J.R. Revolution, and it has never arrived. I've been promised breakthroughs--erratic play replaced by consistency, bad decisions displaced by enlightenment, ambivalence about teamwork absorbed into a new-age point guard. I've read and heard everything. Yet, by the second week of May each spring, I've instead found myself swollen with pride while wondering in which empty gym he was presiding over such sweeping, irrelevant change. I never believed in J.R., and I was always vindicated for my assured skepticism. Even when he'd have days, or weeks, or fortnights of inspired play that threatened to carry him from cult worship to mainstream acceptance, I was secure in the knowledge that, ultimately, J.R. Smith didn't work.

Smith has been the perfect Nugget. In every way. The second-least FD thing about me is that I hate Denver. My disdain for Smith runs so deep because it is a microcosm for my zealous loathing of the Nuggets. In this Carmelo Era, Denver has symbolized the sinister potential for self-destruction that is inextricably linked to basketball which challenges the NBA's established models for success. Whereas the D'Antoni Suns or the Davis/Stack Jack Warriors offered tantalizing glimpses at a new order, albeit fleetingly (and, therefore, perhaps not so much true glimpses but, rather, illusions), the Carmelo Nuggets have pursuasively argued against change. This bizarro campaign for something new reached its nadir (perhaps zenith if up is down) last year, when Denver flamed out of the playoffs amidst a conflagration of lazy defense, disorganized offense, and selfish decisions. As I wrote then, it was offensive, with the ugly vainglory and petulance that affirm vexing stereotypes: about the priorities of NBA players; about the mental capacity of these men; about strategy that would wield unfettered basketball as a weapon, rather than fearing it as an undesired outcome. Denver's shit hasn't worked.

I won't front--I've enjoyed watching Denver inflict its own wounds. Not only because I dislike J.R., but because I find George Karl to be sanctimonious in his obvious belief that he serves as a Keeper of the Game. Because no matter how unfair it might be, Kenyon Martin has devolved into a video-game villain, replete with a robotic offensive "skill" set and a seemingly endless penchant for masturbatory mean-mugging. Because Denver-as-Movement somehow became a widespread fiction on par with the hokum that Knicks fans would rather watch a mediocre playoff team than build for a championship future. I could continue, but that seems excessive. It's felt good to stand over this frustrated, seething, volatile mess and gloat in the wake of annual failure brought on by the excess of style, not it's triumph.

Rejoicing in Denver's undoing is not such a lonely pasttime, though, and this season, this postseason, the Nuggets appear to be playing as though they're tired of people like me making fun of them. Really, it's been an almost inexplicable transformation ostensibly brought on by what has previously been diagnosed as one team become decidedly more FD when infused with an un-FD player. As noted:

[Chauncey] Billups, then, is neither too much nor too little of a point guard, and as such is the perfect equilibrium for a Denver team made up of various forms of excess and lack. His job isn't to encourage K-Mart, J.R., and Nene, but in effect, manage them. Neither dashing "floor general" nor feckless "game manager," Billups is entrusted with turning craziness into a useful commodity, ordering and meting it out so that players are compartmentalized without being squelched. Maybe that makes him a lion-tamer, or the guy in charge of The Wild Bunch. Denver may not have the least conventional roster in the league, but it's certainly the most streaky and combustible. Billups can juggle these pieces (one of which is George Karl, natch) through a combination of equanimity and pragmatism.

Denver has transformed from a rambunctious collection of unyielding parts always sabotaged by their own priorities to a spirited collective unrelenting in its pursuit of defiant accomplishment. Does that make sense? It's shit just seems to work all of a sudden, as though the piling on enabled by last year's spectacular failure pushed the Nuggets' capacity for absorbing the bile which fuels self-loathing past a saturation point. Denver has convincingly pulled itself together. Even J.R. is regularly effective, his positive contributions no longer marring a vast landscape of consistent inconsistency. Billups may, indeed, serve as the manager of the team, the one whose judicious decisions enable Denver to be Denver in a good way, and not a bad way. He, an outsider with a pedigree of discipline and a championship background fueled by embracing other-ness, may have identified what I just wrote in his own way. But even acknowledging this likely truth doesn't seem to properly recognize who these Nuggets are.

There was a moment against the Mavericks yesterday when Denver broke its huddle by Karl imploring them to "keep on playing the right way." This "right way," one which had stolen the early lead and momentum from Dallas, consisted of leak outs and aggressive defensive rebounding; of Nene, not always so nimble, swooping to the basket as Dallas looked slow and confused; of Kenyon Martin elbowing anything that got in his way anywhere on the floor; of defensive breakdowns against Dirk rapidly fading amidst retaliatory secondary breaks; of Linas Kleiza taking threes early in the shot clock; of J.R. popping over guys with hands in his face; of Chris Andersen swatting a shot into the fifth row and egging on the crowd in a knowing frenzy. Erick Dampier spent most of the first half falling over himself, and it might have owed to the sort of dimentia which the Nuggets can cause when the unconventional parts are orchestrated in a common direction.

Honestly, this moment was sublime. With its brooding and surly and muscular and wild elements in explosive harmony, Denver was so far afield of anything Larry Brown has ever moaned at any of the players he loves to hate that George Karl, unintentionally, made a mockery of what we attach to the concept of "playing the right way." And yet, it was less farce and more cooptation, because Denver was, in fact, playing the right way. It was playing its right way. It's shit worked.

In the middle of the controlled hysteria, it occurred to me that only on this Denver team could the Birdman be considered the second-least crazy, or second-most normal, player. A man covered in ornate tattoos and hair gel who was probably smoking PCP this morning. But, after Chauncey, who, really, is more standard? Birdman comes off the bench, provides energy, blocks shots, and cleans up garbage at the rim. He's exceptional at what he does thanks to his athleticism and spirit, but still, he's unconventionally good at a fairly conventional role. So is Chauncey. And then...what? You have Nene, who sometimes is dominating, sometimes is involved in a psychodrama, and always seems to be into something. You have K-Mart, for whom the game is incidental in pursuit of reckless conflict. You have Carmelo, who is a sort of reluctant leader who will get to where he needs to be but regularly carves out a circuitous route that wouldn't be advisable for other guys asked to do what he does. You have the journeyman backup point guard who shouldn't even be in the NBA anymore. And, of course, the internets' favorite misunderstood agent of change, J.R. Smith. Seriously, whom else on the team is more "normal" than Billups or Andersen?

All of that captures Denver, now. The Nuggets have inverted a paradox. Or something. They've decided that a half-black bookworm who has an exotic name and no money can be president. It can be perplexing, but it also feels right. The radicalism appears like common sense. Of course that can happen; watching the Nuggets win is almost logical. The manic quality is not gone but is now managed, and each player no longer seems to be united solely by a shared apathy. Without the kind of overhaul or "recommitment" the media usually celebrate and leads to a team like Dalls getting rolled by Golden State, Denver has improved. It's tired of the haters and put its insanity to work. Forever a Nuggets skeptic, I find it awesomely intriguing. I feel like they're spiting me, in particular, and I like it.

[Insert awkward segue here] I also like the perhaps unwitting basketball project that Cam'ron is putting together. Since the start of the year, Cam has created three songs that each name checks a different point guard (something profane this way comes):

Cam'ron, "Cookin' Up" - "I'm Killa/You Andre Miller/Got a Basic Game"

Cam'ron ft. Jadakiss, "Let's Talk About" - "Shootin' in the Miam Heat/Like Chalmers"

Cam'ron, "Silky" - "I'm on Point/Like Rondo"

This has great potential. Let's hope Aaron Brooks plays well against the Lakers.

  

Leave Home

Links of goodness today:

-Shoals Unlimited about the real story of Nuggets/Hornets: The revenge of J.R. Smith and the Birdman.

-Whoever asked for more Mavs, here's your Mavs-only content, in a guest post for D Magazine's Inside Corner.

-Not only is this latest Boxiana post excellent, it was also composed roughly five feet from me.

Podcast tomorrow!

And the Sky Shall Rustle Its Own

The Suns were a movement, one that threatened to alter the face of the league. The Warriors of their moment, god bless their soul, got that one perfect chance to prove their credo sound. Theirs was a principle, a perspective, even an outlook, that stayed marginal but boogied its way into rational discourse. If only as a cautionary footnote.

Even J.R. Smith "going shot-for-shot with Kobe," which I fully believe and more or less predicted last week (why J.R. can talk shit to Bryant), is potential coming home to roost. Anyone who pays attention to the league knows that Smith can score at will, and could, given the right amount of guidance and freedom, lead the league in scoring. There is a certain amount of scientific rigor in my thinking on the J.R. question—talented, but troubled, player who will one day find his way into the light. Even if no one else knew it yet.

And then there's these Hawks wins, in which the known universe did an end-around on my wildest hopes and dreams. There's really no way to explain this expect by resorting to signs, miracles, and photos of the Six-Day War. Eff a Billups punchline post; I've spent the last several seasons watching this Atlanta team, often to the detriment of my well-being, waiting for something like this to unfold. For their long, up-tempo versatility to coalesce into a five-man front. For it to make sense when everyone jumped straight up on every single opponents' shot attempt. And, maybe even more unrealistically, for Joe Johnson or Josh Smith to just run shit in the half-court, step up in an orderly fashion that would cement their status as rising stars. Plus enjoy it a little.



It never, ever happened, until these last two games. Against a team that Shoefly described, with grudging reverence, as "the hammer." I really have no socio-political point of reference for this—it's not the American Revoluution, or even an untidy explosion of Black radicalism. These would've been Phoenix and Golden State. This is so unexpected, even to followers like myself, that it's like a leap of faith that even I was unwilling to make. I wanted Josh Smith to block KG once, or Joe Johnson to have one nationally-televised game that validated his All-Star status. Even that was hard to commit to—taking the Hawks that seriously risked tarnishing the realm of fantasy they've always inhabited.

But here we stand, with this team all grown-up in a span of days, and the strengths and weaknesses I've come to know so well suddenly figuring prominently in THE storyline of the post-season. I feel like a failure, for having so much trouble making this switch. For not having said all along that, "yes, the Hawks can." And, perhaps, for not having entertained the possibility that Atlanta could make an impact simply because I want them to. My basketball idealism is already so warped; why the trouble getting this utmost fringe to fit into a remotely responsible worldview?

And that's the problem. The Hawks transcend principle or philosophical systems. They are without precedent and supernatural in their arrival. To try and make sense of them, or to have viewed them as grist for match-up columns, would be to miss the point of this otherworldly occurrence. They have flourished not because basketball needed a savior, or because they were tailor-made for the job, but because sport is not politics, economics, or the academy. Nor should the NBA be a haven for college-style chisel jobs (sorry, Thaddeus). Even I can't convince myself I've known all along, or that this stands for anything other than itself.



For Smith blocking Garnett. Pachulia, so kind, getting up in KG's grill. Johnson's slow-mo isolations that hovered somewhere between smooth and drunken. The Hawks' negative ball movement in the fourth. Boston's seeming shock in the face of a team that had suddenly unlocked its infinite potential, and might never do so again. Anyone who believes past this week just doesn't know a whole lot about Atlanta Hawks basketball—which, of course, only makes the whole thing more overwhelming, and causes a crisis of faith in long-time fans. Like, have I been remiss in my goofy passions?

It's also damn hard for me to write about this objectively. The Hawks have been a weird fetish of mine for some time, an inside joke that suddenly shocked the world with the idealized version of them I'd always waited on. Hell, it would be a lot like if some mangy, turgid NBA blog with left-leaning politics and purple prose got a book deal.

So there you have it. The Hawks are FreeDarko. There's your State of the Union address, and why this series fills me with both ecstasy and dread.

UPDATE: Sporting News column on the surreal East, and yes, more Hawks. Also, please be reading my playoffs recaps at TSB.

Leopard Lessons

Kenyon Martin and J.R. Smith have both been yapping to Kobe throughout the first two games of the Lakers/Nuggets series, prompting him to state, with a typical Kobe mix of wisdom and bullshit, "Better learn not to talk to me. You shake the tree, a leopard's gonna fall out." Obviously, that's a badass thing to say, but the curious thing about this quote is that the structure: "You shake a tree, and X falls out" usually means that X is something that's in great supply, e.g., "If you shake a tree in Bahia, a musician will fall out."

I've been madly Googling for the past half hour to see if Kobe's usage is some African proverb or something, but I haven't been able to find anything. I have, however, found numerous other African proverbs involving leopards that I hope he breaks out in Game 3, such as the Nkundo-Mongo zingers: "The foolish little antelope cut firewood for the leopard" or "The small spotted wild cat mistook the leopard for a relative!" To which J.R. could reply with the classic Baluba retort: "The leopard's skin is beautiful, but his heart evil."

Also, read the new Quotemonger, and the McGrady quote that helps a little (found via Mutoni).

Zapruder of my Soul

I have so many complicated feelings about that Nuggets/Sonics game that it will take a crew of armed men to sort them out. First, I watched most of it on Stat Tracker, even though I was right by the television. Such is the allure of Discovery Channel's "Health Care and the Pyramids" program, and my utter basketball fatigue at this point. Also, I didn't particularly feel like seeing the Nuggets lose to the Sonics (if they were going to), since I badly need them in this year's playoffs.

Then I noticed that I was watching Durant's best, most brazen game as a pro. . . from through the veil of a one-dimensional interface. I turned it on in time to see the second miracle shot, which made sense only if you figure his arms put him about three feet closer to the basket than someone with less outlandish proportions.

But the real reason I needed this game: My fantasy team's future came down to it. I have a lovable team of, well, fuck-ups who shouldn't win you anything. Nash and Boozer are cool, but from there it's Josh Smith, Joe Johnson, and Horford, Outlaw, Garcia, Crawford. You get the picture. My team had devolved into an excuse to follow players whose stat lines I find aesthetically pleasing, all this since I was summarily mocked for swapping Paul/Chandler for Johnson/Smith, and earlier getting fleeced by the assurances of one Tom Ziller—sure, Salmons will still productive once Artest is back, making Salmons/Horford for Rudy Gay perfectly fair. I was adrift.

Yet somehow, I ended up in the semi-finals, against a real powerhouse. I jumped out to an early lead, the gap closed, and then by last night, it was close. My team played horribly, but my enemy's Brad Miller sat out. So it came down to field goal percentage, with me up .002%. I had Garcia and J.R. Smith, and was hoping they wouldn't do too much damage. My opponent was looking to a resurgent Elton Brand and Linas Kleiza, who irks me.



What happened next is the stuff of either fate, conspiracy theories, or the outright absurdity of fantasy sports. I only found out the full story after the fact; I clicked away from the Sonics game before it had actually ended, since my girl was not about to miss the beginning of John Adams. But according to my esteemed foe, here's the perfect storm that sent my bunch of holy fools into the finals:

-Garcia is shooting terribly, but then leaves the game with an injury
-Brand is tearing it up; the Clippers stop going to him, then Al Thornton starts chucking away every time he touches the ball

So it all comes down to J.R., who has played very little, and Kleiza. I'll let the message board take over here:

Double overtime, 20 seconds left, the Sonics are up 5. I am trailing the feelings 5-4 with the key statistic being FG% where I am behind .002 percent. The ball is inbounded to J.R. Smith who takes a three and misses badly. I am now down .001% Fine I say, look, I lost, it was extraordinarily close, but so it goes. I can take the close loss. Meanwhile, though, the sonics take some free throws, Iverson scores a bucket and the sonics take some more free throws. There are now 4.6 seconds left and the Nuggets are down 6 points.

Camby gets the ball and who does he inbound to? J.R. Smith! Smith takes the ball languidly up the court, the rest of the teams are heading to the locker room, shaking hands etc.

If J.R. Smith just runs the clock out I wouldn't have said anything, but instead he takes the shot from just inside half court right on the sideline. The ball is up, about fifteen feet out of his hands! I'm going to tie, possibly win outright if the shot is worth .002, but then, out of nowhere, Earl Watson runs into J.R. Smith, with the ball 15 feet out of his hands and .08 seconds left. The ball falls harmlessly 12 feet short of the basket but the officials call the foul. Why did they call the foul? The game was over? Why did Watson foul him from 48 feet away when the game was over? Why did I lose by .001 percent because of Earl Fucking Watson? I was going for back to back titles! I would have won in the finals, but Earl fucking Watson decides to foul from 48 feet with the game already decided.

So I'm lurching in the championship, against a team whose key strategy was selling the farm for Shawn Marion at the trade deadline. How he got this far is a story for another day.

I have very mixed feelings about this. It's all too appropriate that Smith would somehow propel me onward. But he didn't do it with a clutch three, or the kind of scoring outburst that justifies having him on my team. In fact, he very nearly blew it for me. . . until my absolute least favorite player in the league swooped in and fed me a Jesus. Smith did something stupid, both fulfilling his being and betraying that maturity we've been hearing so much about. What Watson did is beyond the pale of stupid. It's barely even basketball.



Has a basketball game ever pulled me more ways at once? I doubt it. And I didn't even watch the damn thing.

(P.S. If anyone has video I can embed, holler.)

Powder Blue Isotope

I can't believe how blind I was. To whomever said that the Nuggets are the new Warriors, you're wrong, but onto something. I watched them last night, and still stand by my complaint that this team should have way more edge than it does. And really, wasn't it edge/attitude/intangibles/serrated testicles that allowed the Dubs to push through Dallas like they did?

However, there is a light, and it's one whose familiar glow has at times threatened to burn down my life, or presented itself as that last flicker before the human race goes dark forever. That, my friends, is J.R. Smith. He may never grow up into a solid starter, but in the wake of Stephen Jackson's revenge, I see a new niche for J.R.: Catalytic wild card. Smith has been on a tear lately, which for him means backing up swag with outrageous playmaking, which in turn feeds the swaggering beast. George Karl may deserve to be fired, but at very least be should be commended for letting this petri monster bubble a bit.

So I'd say, why not take off the leash? Make Smith's antics a permanent feature of this team's night-in, night-out identity. Iverson and Melo are perfectly responsible adults now; Martin and Camby, beyond reproach. There's no risk of their backsliding, so why not at least give them a little souvenir of the vitality that goes with irresponsibility? It's the role of a lifetime for the mercurial Smith, and might give the Nuggets the spark they need to, well, stop looking so rote in their scoring explosions.



Look at the kid. Learn and listen. He idolizes you, and probably owes what's left of his NBA career to you. Now, it's his turn to give back, and maybe help himself even more in the process. J.R. Smith is getting free. Let him now lead his Nuggets to a higher plane of unpredictability. The Warriors parallel isn't perfect: Baron is a real point guard, Nellie has a vision, and so on and so forth. All the more reason to think in rareified terms. Nothing changes on the floor, except for the timbre of their output.

There is fun, and there is danger, inside J.R. Smith. When he harnesses these two, he's not a nuisance—he's a self-help guru for a team in need of a jolt. Here's hoping they don't let knowledge get in the way of knowing.

ALERT: I said earlier this season that Al Thornton would be mentioned on here more than any other rookie. Well, I fibbed. I haven't watched the Clippers once, though I see that dude has suddenly started to ignite what's left of the season. So someone, clue me in on Thornton at this level. Is he worth making a priority of? Does he belong in my Five?

Still not sure how I feel about Landry. The Rockets may be the most workmanlike running team ever, even if this might be the most I've enjoyed watching McGrady since 2002-03.



UPDATE: I have a new, highly entertaining column at SLAM.

Mr. Liver's Sunday Memo

One thing I've learned while working on this book: I like memories. I prefer players as I remember them from day-to-day than the fussy business of paying attention. So sue me.

I also cannot overstate the importance of the purely outrageous in my view of basketball. Writing about Josh Smith and Gerald Wallace over the weekend was like a spiritual experience, exactly because I took off the shackles and restored them to their rightful place beyond the sun. I'm sorry, I can't fake it—my skin shrivels when I hear NPR commentators dip their feet in the "poetry of this Super Bowl match-up" waters, but I'm always going to tend toward basketball as transcendent spectacle.

That's why I'm totally stoked about this year's Dunk Contest, which is beginning to take on surreal features. Green, Howard, and Gay are currently debating, McLaughlin Group-style, over just how high the hoops will be raised. Are you stealing my silver? This is outright mutiny, taking all the pageantry of the post-Vince artifice and pretending it's just not there. The judges, the system, fucked up by wronging Dwight. Time to take matters into their own hands, and do so with grand, public, possibly insane bragging that the NBA is powerless to guard against.



Gerald Green is like the NBA's verison of a suicide bomber right about now. I still don't get how his scoring and flash can't help some long-suffering franchise, but whatever, he's fast slipping away. So he stakes it all on the impossible, and just dares the league to calm him down, or his foes to back down first. I was bummed about trading Rudy Gay in my fantasy league, until I found out that John Salmons has been spending time with his wife's tricky pregnancy, which is TOTALLY KINGS, going all the way back to Webber. Plus I now have every single Atlanta Hawk on my team.

What really rips this all to shreds is if Howard gets some small-man mobility and flexibility going. Say he duplicates J.R. Smith's around-the-back dunk from 2005—most criminally-unheralded entry in the ritual's whole history. That would indeed, as the gophers state, change the game.

Things that would make the Super Bowl: If Google bought Tom Brady and Plaxico Burress accidentally sat on his mixtape collection. Other than that, I'll be busy making the perfect salad.

Damn people don't respect the Dunk Contest enough. There is most definitely a trickle-down effect from what happens out there to a players' on-court juice. Another reason why J.R. got robbed.