All My Friends Are Going to Be Strangers

Zac Crain is a senior editor at D Magazine and author of the Dimebag Darrell bio, Black Tooth Grin. Follow him at @zaccrain.

Josh Howard didn’t stop being a Dallas Maverick because he loves weed or hates the national anthem. That was cover fire. Josh Howard stopped being a Dallas Maverick because he became conventional.

When he entered the league as part of (but not really) the fabled draft class of 2003, he was wholly unpredictable, something the Dallas Mavericks lacked at the time. Don Nelson gave that squad the illusion of unpredictability, but that team (and pretty much all others Nellie has coached) was incredibly predictable within his framework. He’s like Wes Anderson or any other director that has been called quirky, or similar. If you walk in halfway through one of their films, it might seem so, but not if you have seen all of them from the beginning. Then the quirks are rote and easy to anticipate. Nellie has been Nellie for long enough that every ace up his sleeve is, by now, a two of clubs.

But Howard was genuinely wild, in his way. He was part of the team but apart from it at the same time. That isn’t to say he broke plays, or was a problem in any way. He had a game that seemed concocted on the fly. It was all impulse. He, more than any Mav at that time, could leave the crowd gasping. Dirk Nowitzki was the inevitable. Josh was the possible.

And then he turned into Michael Finley. Worse, he turned into late-career Michael Finley.

When it comes to Howard, I’ve always thought of Michael Finley as secondhand smoke. He is a power plant behind the back fence. He is a microwave tower hovering over a quiet neighborhood. I could (probably) make a scientific case that Finley gave Howard’s career cancer. But more than that, I simply believe it’s true, maybe because I want to and maybe because I can’t explain it otherwise. I don’t want to blame chance. It has to be the fault of someone or something.



So I always think of Mike Finley.

Specifically, I think of the Finley that I grew to despise during the last few years of his time in Dallas, which coincided with Howard’s first few seasons in the league. Even more specifically, I think of one play. It’s not a single moment, exactly. It’s a sequence that seemed to happen every game.

It is the end of a quarter, or a half, or a game. The shot clock is off but there is plenty of time left on the clock. Let’s say 17 seconds. Finley gets the ball near the three-point line on one side or the other. And then he turns into a bad Michael Jordan impersonator. Let’s say Harold Miner. He palms the ball, arm extended, holding it away from his defender. You’ve seen this. Yes. Finley keeps holding it, and holding it. You reach, I teach, and, man, fuck Jordan, too. He made this happen.

Ten seconds. Jab step. Jab step. Five seconds. Finley takes a dribble than in no way could be considered as progress toward the basket. Two seconds. And here we are again: a heavily contested, step-back, fall-away jumper that only succeeds in drawing a groan from the crowd and maybe a bit of rim. It is a single shot, but it means everything. This is the signature move of someone who has put pride above all else. It was Finley’s move, and it became Howard’s.

Howard is sort of the son and grandson of this—affected by Jordan through Finley, and affected by Jordan directly. (That they were both handpicked by Jordan to be part of his Jumpman 23 roster and therefore under his wing is, I guess, my smoking gun.) A good enough player can handle it. For a time, Finley was good enough. With tons of qualifiers, yes—The Man, but on a terrible team, etc. But still: good enough. Howard never was. He was close. But he didn’t have the right make-up or the right situation.

The off-court PR problems? Those were maybe symptoms of his newfound pride. But I don’t believe that. Those made him more of a real person. He said the shit he wasn’t supposed to say but wasn’t alone in thinking or doing. He was maybe wrong in his choice of venue for one of those statements, but that didn’t make him wrong, or at least not wrong to speak his mind.

Be he was wrong on the court. That was more unforgivable. He fell in love with a jumper that, at best, wanted to be friends, maybe make out a little every once in awhile if they both had too much to drink. He decided he was 1B to Dirk Nowitzki’s 1A based on an injury-replacement All-Star selection and little else. He made superstar mistakes (picking up bad T’s at worse times) without superstar production.

It could have been different. He could have actually earned that 1B status. He could have been—and generally was, early on—a great defender, but he stopped trying on that end around 2005. Somehow, he was a much better defender under Don Nelson.

(Aside: You could sort of see where this was headed during the 2004 Rookie Challenge. That he was there was victory enough, given his draft position and everything else. He was a footnote to an afterthought, in a game dominated (on court) by Amar’e Stoudamire and (media-wise) by LeBron and Melo. Nelson told him to just do what he’d been doing to earn rotation minutes: rebound and play defense. Instead, and I don’t have the numbers in front of me, but I feel as though he went something like 0-12 from three-point range in about eight minutes of playing time. I know, I know—wrong to judge ANYTHING in a glorified pickup game. But still. Omens are omens.)

He should have flourished playing with Jason Kidd, but the opposite happened. The Josh Howard that would have flourished in that situation—the one who always seemed to appear out of nowhere somewhere around the rim and, less relevant, regularly shut down clubs with Marquis Daniels—was long gone. He didn’t need (or want) a point guard, or anyone else, really. He had a fat man’s game: nothing but jogging and fadeaways.



In a way, Howard was still unpredictable, because I never expected that.

And so he is in Washington now, trying to come back from a knee injury and various other psychic damage from the six-month period where his status was fired on from pretty much every angle. This could come full circle. He is, more or less, forgotten now. It’s the perfect time for him to fly in from out of nowhere again.

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.

That Florid, Floating Dungeon Called Home

I'm wary of turning these first few weeks into "FD: Yay or Nay?" for teams that have reconfigured during the off-season. But when these moments strike, I feel obliged to speak up—atone, even, when it's a squad I've dumped on in the past. While it's not exactly eating crow, since I stand by my right to have opinions, sometimes I go too far (okay, usually), and when there's a shift I swing back in the other direction and get outright penitent.

All of which is a long way of saying: Welcome back, Mavs. I know you lost that game, to a Rockets team that, despite a T-Mac who looked some combination of hurt, old, bothered by Artest, or morphing into a true point forward, had CONTENDER written all over them. You could feel Artest's presence throughout the game, mostly in the way that the undersized PF corps suddenly seemed like a movement, an undercurrent of grit and determination that really buoyed the more courtly Yao and McGrady. That's where he seemed to fit in best, not as a member of a mythical Big Three. And he was piling up points, some smart, some stupid, but never so crazy that he threw off the team's rhythm—and that was before he effectively took over the game when it needed sealing. In this respect, almost like a second T-Mac.



Still, what got me most thrilled about that game the Mavs. I know, I know, all I care about is running and flexibility. But after having spent so much time irritated by Avery's attempt to Spurs-ify Dallas, and after this summer, badly wanting to see Howard make a statement, when that team had it going I felt like I was turning up an old favorite that had previously been buried. Dirk went inside some, and yet also felt free to launch off from anywhere. The main thing was that he was fluid, not forced or strained. I may not love Jason Kidd, but in Carlisle's offense—yes, a ton of credit is due there—when he sets people up, it's for them to make a move, prove their worth, keep the game in motion. He looks happier, they look happier, and honestly, again Nowitzki can frighten you with his sheer strangeness.

And then there was Howard. Night and day from the disastrous end to last season. He got to handle the ball to get in rhythm, sometimes even bringing it up the court. He was daring but not careless, believing in his elastic, bounding moves in a way he just didn't seem to last spring. Like Dirk, nothing was forced, and yet there was an edge of danger and imagination that made you realize that this team wasn't going to be predicable, or conservative. This team is good enough to run, and resolve what might initially look crazy or out of control into a smart decision. Contrast that with the New Knicks, who at their best last night needed to think first about being smart, then gamble a little.

I'm pretty sure that Houston has the capacity to be more of a defensive force; Dallas, who knows. But for my twisted purposes, welcome back, guys.

BONUS: Steinz does a Q&A with yours truly, commenters revolt.

-Part one of "Draft Daze," a Dallas Penn-approve short about one man and his hoops dream.



-If you haven't already, check the new shirts. They will upend you.

A High-Tech Lynching, Or An Exercise in Verbal Disenfranchisement

Earlier today, Mike Fisher of DallasBasketball.com wrote a point by point response to Bethlehem Shoals's recent Josh Howard post. In my view, it didn't really add much to the discourse, so I won't bother with a point by point response to his response. But, I did find his other post on the situation, entitled "'Disenfranchised' In Dallas: J-Ho's Latest Diss," to be much more interesting and quite revealing, although maybe not in the way he intended.

I specifically want to address the issue of disenfranchisement, since Fisher uses the word in his title and repeatedly invokes the phrase "the Disenfranchised Black Man" throughout the post. When he first uses it, he actually calls it "the Legend/Myth of the Disenfranchised Black Man." Perhaps I'm being too literal, but the disenfranchisement of the black man is not a myth. It is a verifiable, horrible truth. I am sure that, being a patriot, Fisher knows enough about American history to know that, prior to the ratification of the 15th Amendment in 1870, black men did not have the franchise, or the right to vote. It's probably safe to assume that he knows about the Jim Crow era, during which black men were effectively denied the right to vote, and that this period did not end until the Voting Rights Act of 1965. Hell, Fisher might even know that 1.4 million black men are not allowed to vote today, as a result of felon disenfranchisement laws.

Since Fisher's a Mavs fan, I'm sure he knows that Howard is from North Carolina and that he was raised by his grandmother. He probably realizes that this means that black people were not allowed to vote for a significant portion of Howard's grandmother's life. Indeed, he writes: "Maybe he's got a personal tale of racial oppression. More likely, he's got a personal tale relayed to him by an older relative." Fisher even encourages Howard to "use it" and "express it," but then comes the key quote, the moment when Fisher shows his (white) ass: "But not like this."

Fisher, a white man from Texas, seems to think he gets to determine how and when it's appropriate for a black man to express himself. Not only that, but he also gets to determine who has and has not suffered from racism: "[W]hile racism exists it certainly hasn’t resulted in [Howard] personally suffering too greatly." And he criticizes Howard for being arrogant! An offhand, off-color comment at a flag football game pales in comparison to a white man stating in a public forum that he thinks he gets to decide when racism exists and when it's appropriate for black people to speak. I don't know how well Fisher knows Howard (I'm guessing not at all), but even if they were boys and went bowling together every week, the level of presumptuousness here would still be shocking. And it runs throughout the entire post.

Let's take a look at the full quotation:

This circumstance does not call for a dissertation on the meaning of The Star-Spangled Banner. That dissertation is provided (for free, J-Ho) to every second-grader in this country, and while Josh might’ve skipped that day in school (maybe he was smokin’ in the boys room?) the information is certainly available to him. He might learn that the flag is neither white or black, that while racism exists it certainly hasn’t resulted in him personally suffering too greatly, and that whining as if he’s somehow been penalized by being an American is a insult to citizens (black, white and otherwise) who over the course of the last 250 years truly had a reason to be upset, angry and disenfranchised.

First, given the chronology I laid out earlier, the use of "250 years" is quite curious, since the United States of America didn't even exist 250 years ago, and it's only been 43 since the Voting Rights Act. Yet, in 2008, a white man from Texas is telling people that "the Disenfranchised Black Man act" (emphasis mine) is "tiresome." Also, nowhere have I ever read that Howard feels he has been "penalized by being an American," but it's absolute fact that he's been penalized for being a black American. If one takes even a cursory look at the statistics, one knows this. Black men are far more likely than their white counterparts to be unemployed, to be incarcerated, to be killed, to die of disease, etc. The depressing list goes on and on. But, no one today "truly" has a reason to be upset or angry. It all happened 250 years ago. And I won't even get into the infantilization of framing this as a second grade education Howard is too dumb to process, or the use of the word "whining" (but I will note that Phil Gramm is also from Texas).

Before I end, I want to return to this word disenfranchisement. The right to vote is not a joke. It is something to be taken extremely seriously, especially in the black community, where people literally died (and not that long ago) for it. If Fisher's breezy (and incredibly condescending) prediction: "I’m taking odds that while Josh talks of supporting Obama, he’ll never actually make it to the voting booth on Nov. 4." is any indication, he doesn't get it. Voting is an expressive right, one that Fisher presumably is okay with (although if you're a black man, Fisher would appreciate it if you check with him first), but it's not the only one. Humor has traditionally been one way that black people have expressed themselves in the face of oppression, laughing to keep from crying. It's one thing for Fisher to not be amused by Howard's comment, but it's a far graver thing for him to attempt (even in his indirect, ineffective way) to silence him.

Maybe for Fisher, the flag and the national anthem mean "soldiers-lives-bought freedom," but is it really that difficult to understand that it might mean something else to a black man from North Carolina? Somewhere where the American flag flew for hundreds of years, while black people were terrorized and abused and denied the right to vote. Somewhere where black men still suffer from great inequalities. That it might not symbolize freedom, but oppression? And even if doesn't signify that, that a black man from North Carolina might be indifferent to the national anthem? Isn't that his right? Can he not express that indifference to friends in what, even ten years ago, would have been a private moment?

I want to be clear that I'm not saying Fisher is a racist, but it is apparent that he has, to use his phrase, "visited arrogant foolishness". How willing should we be to excuse him? If we held him to the standard he uses for Howard, he wouldn't make it. After all, the information is certainly available to him. But I'll be generous and turn his advice back on him: Please swap your sense of humor, your Holier Than Thou White Man act and sense of entitlement in exchange for some humility.

Be sure to check in on the Presidential 21 Tournament, still going on below.

Just a Bunch of Josh Howard Talkin'

I suppose I could see the Josh Howard video (you know the one) as an Artest-like, "enough is enough" moment for me as a advocate. Like you can only defend, or love, or deny, so much when you're not bound to someone by blood or marriage—or hell, even know him at all.

Then I got going with the whole "like I actually give a fuck" thing, the same emotion I felt when, behind the scenes, bloggers were debating the validity—and worth in posting—the supposed Beasley/Chalmers photo. The court of public opinion is of interest to me, but insofar as I'm first and foremost someone who enjoys the league, Beasley puffing or Howard not being a patriot just wouldn't bother me that much.

But then I started to think it through: There's the question of context. Howard is definitely emotional about his politics, and a lot smarter than his rashness sometimes lets on. Everything in digital form eventually finds its way onto the web. And Obama's name is in there, which pretty much requires someone step in and untangle the web of meaning. If there's one thing I've learned from this political season, it's that you can never assume, or expect, too little.

So here are the official FreeDarko Talking Points on the Latest Josh Howard Matter:

-There was humor to it. It was uttered in front of a video camera before a flag football game, in a mood best described as "goofy"

-I am not suprised that some African-Americans have some animosity toward the United States of America. Are you?

-Millions of dollars doesn't change certain feelings, at least in people who cared deeply about them beforehand. If Howard had been angry, and wasn't now, we'd call him a sell-out.

-There are some things that you say among your own, that you wouldn't necessarily say in mixed, or more formal, company. Are we all non-stop liars and deceivers, hiding our true selves and living under frost?

-No shit Obama's support in the black community benefits from widespread frustration therein. Rage, even. That doesn't mean, though, that Obama himself is made of black rage. That's what we call a syllogism, and it's faulty.

-Yes, for athletes and celebrities there's no such thing as private anymore. Everything in a digital format will eventually find its way onto the interwebs. Josh Howard forgot that, and it's only going to add to his woes.

-But it's not like other athletes don't say, or feel things like this. And while you can say that they should keep it to themselves, and leave it out of the workplace, is the problem Howard's mouth or his attitudes?

-So ridicule Howard if you will, or praise him. Call him a buffoon, a throwback, or an inadvertent combination of the two. It's up to you whether this is an embarrassing gaffe or a damning utterance, a gotcha moment or some loaded shit-talking. All I know is that, if this surprises you at all, you don't know much about this country. Or about Josh Howard's inability to reconcile straight talk and public relations.

-Howard needs to sit down with Barkley. If Barkley would even be possible these days. Maybe John Thompson, for this more subtle age.

-Bottom line: Josh Howard is that player who speaks up. If you bitch about the post-MJ blandness of LeBron and, more recently, Melo, then stand up and think about this situation all its sloppy, inflammatory imperfection.

Our Kind of Scraping

Were this a real blog, Josh Howard's drag-racing arrest would've hit this page immediately; we would've coined some half-hearted jokes about driving cars fast while blazed, which hopefully would've been recognized their own irony. And kaloo fucking kalay, another athlete fuck-up to generate page views for us.

We're not a real blog, and in fact, we're the sort of blog put in a decidedly awkward position by Howard's latest shenanigans. Nothing but positivity here, endless attempts to sculpt and reconstruct players' personas so they can resist being needlessly dragged through the mud.

We presume there to be some degree of complexity in every human being, and—not withstanding the fundamental unknowability of our subjects—professional athletes are no less contradictory than the rest of us. Otherwise, they would be supremely one-dimensional and boring, which is probably where my expectations (and preferences) differ from most other watchers of sports. It's like this Olympic thing: Sure, the All-Stars look sparkling together, but so Hollywood sex scenes. What does man learn of himself when everything falls effortlessly into place, smooth, gliding, and unblemished?

The case of Josh Howard, though, could very well underline the hypocrisy, or at least the fragility, of this site's conception. Some might say it's Kobe did us in. After all, I've tirelessly defended him against all attacks. On the other hand, I've always maintained that Bryant is flawed beyond belief—just that flaws are not the same as automatica damnation in all matters. Howard, though, seemed until last spring like an unassailable good dude. Devotion to family, to school, to surrogate, to the spirit of the game, to team, and cherished by his franchise. Then things started to unravel. After a torrential start, where people like me got caught up and called for him to supplant Dirk, Howard slumped. There were back problems, which may or may not have triggered the whole thing, and the death of the great-grandmother who had raised him.



We all know the rest real well. He smokes, everyone smokes, Josh Howard upstages the playoffs with infamy while he performs poorly. Handing out birthday party invites in the locker room before a critical contest. Suddenly, he becomes dispensable; I still don't know if he played into Avery's firing, or whether a new coach makes Howard more or less safe after a few months of non-stop shopping. Now, over a FanHouse, Matt captures to paradox that Howard has become: Doing wonderful things for his Winston-Salem community through basketball, then arrested that same night for drag-racing. To paraphrase Matt, it's a shame that Howard managed to rehab his image a little, only to immediately tear it down again.

I'm not here to excuse Howard's traffic violations, or his previous ratting out of the entire league. Nor are they even similar: One is youthful recklessness, the other out-of-control honesty. But what they do have in common is that, if you take the events of 7/30 as a whole, and looks at the entire pot explosion (not just the dagger), they show how hard it is to paint Howard as a good guy or a bad guy. And—what do you know—it's almost like he's thwacked harder, maybe gleefully, by the media for his having again ravaged his own credibility. Through no fault of his own, he's set a high bar for his behavior, since, you know, there's no way anyone could have traces of both angel and asshole within him. Certainly, the juxtaposition Matt cites is a better story than some random NBA player of questionable (or unknown morals) driving too fast.

So maybe I'm supposed to come on here today and be like, "oh, I'm so stupid for supporting Howard, he does bad things and deserves to be mocked. He has failed us." I guess. But really, I'm more concerned with us figuring out how to reconcile these two sides of Howard, something he'll have to do himself going forward.



You could argue that Melo's had to do something similar, without nearly the "good guy" rep to burden him. All Anthony had to do was prove that he wasn't as rough as Iverson. Howard, it's like if David Robinson woke up and found J.R. Rider living inside of him. That's a challenge for him, but also for all of us who like to think that there are values inherent in being a fan. If we owe athletes anything, we at least owe them the capacity to contain contradictions. Something that's a pretty basic right, and point of pride, for everyone from Christian fundamentalists to non-retarded socialists. Hell, it's this, and not his mealy-mouthed record, that's made Bill Clinton an icon.

Or, if you want, I can get some commenters riled up by bringing in Obama's "abandonment" of the netroots. . .

Triage, So They Might Lead

Some major shifts on our cosmological landscape this weekend. No, I'm not talking about the Hawks, which was a truly transcendent human occurrence that, justice willing, is irreproducible. I'm thinking instead of my new take on McGrady, which began when he made his side-splitting "beer is my fault" comment. He seems strangely free at this point. If the media wants to paint him as a loser, or a slacker, that's fine; the fever pitch it's reached has only allowed him to step back and either confront it or shrug it off as hysteria. As I've said a few times, it's just the first round. Once he does do it, it's not like a parade is waiting in the wings. Then the championship cringe begins.

I suspect that McGrady, like most players, is concerned mostly with winning and losing what in front of them. When he got knocked out in Round One last year, the crying wasn't about his implacably morose place in history. It was because they had just lost a close series that could have been theirs. If he's not more upset this season—as the curse gets thicker and thicker—well, chalk it up to the fact that the circumstances at hand aren't nearly as tense. It's the difference between backdrop and background; the series at hand is what registers most with him, and what T-Mac reacts to primarily. That other thing occurs to him out of the corner of his eye, but isn't forever crushing his spirit. That's for each individual game, and the rest of the immediate future, to do.



I also have decided that, somehow, Josh Howard had suddenly entered McGrady territory. I don't expect this pot thing to last, but his play has been absolutely miserable for the last few months. [Insert tennis pro Tennenbaum brother reference here]. The back problems, the recent deaths, the burdened "just speaking my mind," Howard is nothing like the ball of spikes, rubber bands, and gangles that's won us over since '03-04. Howard's an even more complicated figure, because—no disrespect meant to Tracy—the young Mav isn't so easy to paint as merely an imperfect athlete. If there's one thing this whole weed episode taught us, it's that Howard just wants to kill the bullshit. This isn't about swagger. It's the past's radical athlete principles delivered with this era's off-handedness. And Howard, I'm beginning to think, speaks out because he's upset, not angry.

For today's Josh Howard, tune into the Julian Wright Show. Tayshaun Prince waited till crucial playoff games to make his rookie year count for something. With last night, Wright started to do the same. His game is every bit as awkward and elastic as Howard's, but somehow steely and capable of square-jawed wonders when you least expect it. Wright also has that thing that the younger, less stricken, Howard had, where his every move seemed to kind of freak out all the other players on the floor, who weren't ready to let their every pore combust.

(Here's a book teaser: When you see it, you will understand why these events are kind of making me nervous)

The Orderly Exchange of Grip-Taped Hatchets

I'm taking a wild guess that this Josh Howard non-event is a defining moment for the FD community. Namely, there's really no need for me to come on here and grandstand about how uninteresting weed is, how in Howard's case it plays neither to a racist image or questions about his attitude. Or how, as most of us know, Howard's second-half slump is a function of back problems and multiple deaths around him that he's decided to play through—both of which, from what I hear, are good therapeutic uses for pot if he were to smoke during the season.

The outrage most of us feel at the bristling know-nots is encapsulated perfectly by Henry's post, which mentions a certain Deadspin piece of mine. The whole controversy almost feels like a manufactured campaign trail issue, what with the push it's getting on local news channels. I also find it odd that, in football, it's now become common practice to admit to past weed use before the draft, to get all the skeletons out there. This isn't quite the same, since Howard stressed continued (if declined) use, and implicated others. But, as Devin Harris said on the sidelines, this is just Howard speaking his mind; he just does not give a fuck about bullshit delicacies and inference because he "knows they're not true.". Like Henry said, it's only a shock if we pretend we didn't know, and reward those who play along on what should be a relatively minor issue. Grow the fuck up, AmeriKKKa!!!!!!!



Where is Bill Walton in all this? Why did Howard have to go on the show of an avowed high-steppin' 12-stepper, whose tone and languge were straight out of smug intervention 101? It's a credit to Howard that, while Irvin was insisting that pot would break J-Ho's heart, he didn't once say "fall back, Old Crack, I've got this." He didn't come off so well, but partly because his disdain for the whole dog and pony show was evident. Drinking is rampant in the league, and that for sure fucks up your play worse the next day. It was telling to see the ESPN studio crew weigh in. Jalen giggling, more or less saying "young buck, just keep that among us," but clearly kind of enjoying the whole confrontation. SAS seeing it as a PR blunder that showed poor judgment on Howard's part bringing it out now.

What I'm really driving at, though, is that this flare-up feels like it's going on in a different dimension. I like sports, but I've also been around drugs a lot. I haven't smoked pot in over a decade, but that doesn't mean I have any strong feeling on it one way or the other. It's like, people thinking rationally can see the difference between fun intoxication and life-encroaching, job-wrecking problem. For Irvin to sit there and judge Howard like the latter's in the same boat as him—at best, it's solicitous, at worst, fear-mongering. Alcohol is the real scourge unto our nation, and it's a 24-hour source of pride. If Howard is going to have the decent to talk straight and off-the-cuff, at least have the decent to meet him head-on.



More playoffs fun: Some of you already think I've fallen the fuck off, and hopefully, once the book drops I'll be branded a sell-out. But when that happens, I invite you to go back and listen to this interview I did with 1420 ESPN Radio in Hawaii, where I proposed NBA Shit-Talking Semiotics to differentiate between Stevenson's war on Bron and J.R. popping off at Kobe down the stretch. The reasoning: Stevenson can't stop James. His one good offensive game was nice for his ego, but his bragging was based on their match-up. Smith, on the other hand, was guarding Kobe when Bryant already had established his unbreakable stranglehold on the game that night. No way J.R., who while much-improved on defense is hardly associated with that role, was claiming he could shut down Bean Thousand. So the flap most like becomes an abstract back-and-forth about general court prowess, and fuck it, when J.R. gets going he CAN score like Kobe. Thus, I deem the latter altogether more acceptable.

I have no mortal explanation for what's going on in Philly/Detroit. The Sixers still looked ragged and choppy last night, but unlike the past two contests, I had a real sense that it was working, leading somewhere, part of the plan all along. They're not the fluid team they were in the regular season, the one us dreamers had hoped to see make noise in the post-season, but this weird combination of athleticism, guts, and demolition derby might yet turn out to be an interesting contribution to the canon. Also, it's become abundantly clear—Matt Watson even agrees with me—that Amir Johnson has become the key to this series. Everything that's "wrong" with him is what Philly is using to shunt the Pistons. Sort of how J.R. Smith has become absolutely key to any Nuggets hopes. E.G. I control the universe, if you didn't know.



I've been getting a little annoyed at my fatalism throughout this first round "Jazz will take it, easy"; "Philly's done"; "Phoenix has looked too dominated". But I don't think it's too strong to state that we should go-ahead and start packing away our Suns keepsakes, our Barbosa autographed lapels and Nash surf goggles. Amare has risen above it all, and despite last night's ugh, should be able to dominate on his own for years to come. As a unit, a family we've come to love, that's all meandering out the door. Get stricken.

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!