Madvillainy

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

"I Would've Jumped Over a Giraffe"

Here's some vintage Bron-acting-human that also suggests he saw the latest FreeDarko print. You know, the one where Blake Griffin himself jumps over a giraffe instead of that piddly car.

LeBron: "I wouldn't have jumped over a car. I would've jumped over a giraffe!"

BUY OUR BLAKE PRINT HERE.

Plus, additional happiness: Ziller and I reunite to grade the Skills Challenge like a Dunk Contest. It had to be done.

We Can't Be Stopped

I meant to write this yesterday, but got overwhelmed by exactly the monster I had hoped to combat. Yesterday was truly awful. Miserable, boring, sad, ugly, voyeuristic, base, and nearly resistant to any kind of fine distinction. I know that not all of Cleveland felt that way, and yes, LeBron James did that city some wrong. But the story wasn't that nuance, at least until after the game, when some fans at the game admitted they just needed that catharsis, and James showed some vulnerability on the subject of this summer. Confidently, of course, and with one gaffe that everyone jumped on. Still, he was there, acknowledging that the night did matter to him. We watched, though, hoping for the worst, or at least something that would justify this night's marquee billing. I was back and forth between TNT and Michael Vick, and granted, I kind of had to tune in. And yet that wasn't an event: it was a set of conditions that we hoped would yield one. Nearly all the possibilities were bad. It was not what I love about the NBA, or any sports. Reggie Miller was in his element, though. Good for him.

Afterward, though, we got some vintage Monta Ellis -- albeit in a loss -- and a reminder that the Steve Nash is always worth watching. I even briefly appreciated Jason Richardson. On Wednesday, Blake Griffin had one of his most profound (and shocking) games to date, pure joy that, in the Twitter I inhabit, led to nearly as much chatter as Heat-Cavs. Eric Gordon, who has quietly grown into a scoring dynamo, with more power than you think, was in the building, and Baron Davis looked like the old Baron again. Shit, even during the Heat game, LeBron's third was a reminder not of what Cleveland's missing, but the real reason he matters to us in the NBA community. No one can put together that kind of quarter, one where the court shrinks, the basket lowers, and defenders are little more than apparitions, or cones in a ball-handling drill. What's past degree of difficulty? Playing like the game could use a few more impediments.

It's ironic that James is still the league's standard-bearer for ecstatic basketball (though Griffin is getting close), since last night, and the Heat in general, have overshadowed a season that's brought more FD Good News than any in recent memory. The Class of 2003 was supposed to take over the league, and instead, the principals have confused that narrative and, at best, put their ascent in dry-dock. Carmelo Anthony, too. Amar'e in New York isn't exactly a league-changing endeavor, and Gilbert Arenas, another slightly older fellow traveler, is trying to work his way back to being worthless -- not just pitiable. These were the figures that launched FreeDarko and all of them are suffering. Except the league as we see it is healthier than ever.

Every night on the highlights, you see Russell Westbrook doing something or other outrageous (Durant's around, too). Rajon Rondo has responded to this summer's sour USA Basketball experience by ascending into the point guard ether. Chris Paul is back, and he and Deron Williams have resumed battling each other until the end of time like something or other from Norse mythology. Michael Beasley has recovered the game that made him such a beast at Kansas State, and along with Kevin Love, has made the Timberwolves the league's most thrilling exercise in futility. Gordon and Ellis are among the league leaders in scoring; Monta's Warriors are not only intriguing, but also downright functional. I long ago stopped talking bad about Steph Curry, and now I'm about to do the same for David Lee. Dorell Wright is a revelation! John Wall is averaging 18 points, 9 assists, and nearly 3 steals, and we're still waiting for him to really announce himself. The Spurs are very nearly Manu's team, which is both unlikely and intoxicating. Lamar Odom is having his best season since Miami. Have you watched Jrue Holiday? It's hard, given that team, but worth it when he shows what he's capable of. No one remembers Tim Donaghy or looks at results as a function of sportsbook betting.

There are problems in the world today. The Kings have gone purely dysfunctional, with Tyreke Evans and DeMarcus Cousins at the heart of it. Blatche is fat. Brandon Jennings stopped taking that next step we had expected. Anthony Randolph is sphinx-like as ever, even to Mike D'Antoni. And obviously, the Heat were supposed to transform basketball theory and aesthetics. For the most part, though, I am in hog fucking heaven. Why do we need to turn our eyes toward LeBron in Cleveland when, more than ever, it's a fine, fine time to simply bet on the NBA writ large. I'm bad at giving thanks and making toasts, but apparently that's only because they put me on the spot. I am so happy right now.

It All Falls Somewhere

Spectacle has no angle, no perspective. It is horror without intent, intent without horror; it fuses the two poles of aesthetics and outcome as if there had never been an need to reconcile them. There is now a complete circle where before we had long chains of dialectics, writhing between extremes more friendly than they knew. Gone is the case-by-case nature, which required the utmost level of devotion -- either an intuitive crackle, or monastic grind. War's finery and brutality were historically used in the West to mask and enrich one another. Then in the modern age, war-as-spectacle turned power into art, and art into an expression of power. It's fascism, but it's also every single terrorist organization that garnered street cred with kids in the latest digs.

And yes, spectacle is the place where war bleeds into sport without the least bit of room for resistance.

Did you hear the one about last night's TNT line-up. Coming into this season -- as far back as Hoop Summit 2009, actually -- I had expected Wall to not only wow us all with highlights, but rip through the fabric of the game. Some players expand possibilities; others leave categories in liquid ruin. Wall struck me as the kind who lashes out at what we know as if each play were his opening salvo. LeBron James is his own canon; the young Kevin Garnett had a gate-crashing spirit fit for the maddest explorer or most abstract scientist. Wall, though, would make his mark through spectacle, aggressive gestures that left you stunned, and altered the game, while leaving little trace of where they came from or how they might happen again. I still have that hope for Wall, but the newfound importance of the NBA point guard is, in some ways, a burden. The quarterback analogy, along with the learning curve that position demands, is relevant like never before. Structure isn't orthodoxy -- if anything, it's a chance for grander subversion. And yet it's a different kind of engagement.

Wall can still disrupt our basketball brains, and yet to really come into his own, he must expand this sensibility to an entire unit. Impossible? Who knows. Paul is a mastermind, Rondo an eccentric, Nash a trickster. Jazz fans, stick your Deron Williams line here. None of them had Wall's smoldering message, and yet each has consistently found a way to lead their troops not only toward the basket, but to send them scurrying with style -- an extension of themselves. There simply is no other position that offers this possibility, to transmute the quirks of one's game into something resembling a community. There is something cult-ish about it. These things don't end well in the real world. Especially when, in the thick of it, you find a player like Wall -- who, by definition, is at his best when he overrides what we thought we knew. I have no idea what a team premised on this kind of gesture means, and if "prophetic" is even the right word. Do prophets cause problems, or do they teach us anew? Saying "both" seems both unreasonable, presumptuous, and something only yours truly on the sidelines of both basketball and belief would ever tell you. I do know, though, that JaVale McGee figures prominently is that as-of-yet unknown future.



Blake Griffin doesn't have these problems. In part, it's because a vaguely-defined "big man", a giant entrusted merely with making life difficult, even harrowing, for other tall people or smaller ones who would come near the basket. The center has dissolved, and we are left with the "big man". Garnett may have started it, but don't disregard Tim Duncan's unwillingness to play, or be defined as, a five. Or everyone's refusal to be listed as 7'. What's left for Griffin, then, is a space blank, raw, and undefined. He has answered with the ultimate in basketball-as-spectacle. We can attempt to talk about him rationally -- how his combination of power, skill, strength, precision, speed, athleticism, and zeal is fairly unprecedented (LeBron doesn't use his size like this, nor is he as big). I could post some videos to remind you of his greatest hits. Yet Griffin's every move contains within it a shard of his genius. That's the definition of style, and yet in this case, the way that dominance is etched. When we lose this distinction, totalizing occur and spectacle overtakes us. Nothing is frivolous, or entertaining without suggesting a trail of wreckage and damnation left huddled in the corner. The chills Griffin gives us may be degree of difficulty, or because he makes it look so easy. Technology and culture hate each other most when they stare out from the same eyes.

From a fan's perspective, Blake Griffin is one of the most amazing athletes I have ever watched, as well as one of the most frightening. It is these same qualities that also likely make him one of the best. I said last night that Griffin is this NBA season's sole must-watch. Why? Pumped-up excerpts don't do him justice, and neither does the removed act of "having the game on". Griffin plays a different sport than everyone else. Wall would swoop in and scramble expectations. Griffin simply ignores that there was anything there before or since, or that showmanship and brute effectiveness need, for practical purposes, go their separate ways in a blink. His method isn't expert chaos, but a space-aged roar that makes you shout out in joy and pain at once -- at both the "how" and the "what".

This is the heart of spectacle, and when you're sucked in, you can't tell which way is up and which is down. It is the end and the beginning, for the game and for the way we parse it. Sometimes, I'm not even sure whether I'm supposed to love or hate him. Once upon a time, man discovered fire. According to the Greeks, Prometheus paid a price, but for an adjective like that, I would give my liver to a buzzard who knew more than I did.

Wood Don't Bother Me

Here's a track, and accompanying fantasy-vid, from Wayman Tisdale's posthumous The Fonk Record. George Clinton and George Duke are involved. Thanks to Catchdubs for the tip.

I don't have the energy today for a real post, so instead, I'm going to read through the headlines and make a couple of jokes about each one. Also, I want to get back to reading Mark Jacobson's The Lampshade, which might be the best book I've ever read. You should buy it and leave me along for the weekend. Just don't bring it to the gym with the dust jacket on. It's kind of like a personal version of when a certain "history of an racial slur" book came out, and the country learned that you're never as alone as you think on the subway.

-Tony Parker is staying in San Antonio. Have they even played yet this season? It must have gone really, really well. $50 million for 4 years. Royce Young observes that Parker isn't as old as people think; is entering his prime; and might not be as injury-prone as we've come to believe. I don't even know what "injury-prone" means anymore. One appendage? A mental deficiency? Just a badly-made body that nevertheless, was high-test enough to make the NBA? God is weird. I'm just happy that we can stop talking about Parker to the Knicks. Call me crazy, but I believe more in Felton as a distributor, at least in an up-tempo team or off athletic bigs, than I do Parker. Part of my respect for Duncan, Manu, and yes, Hill, stems from the limitations of Tony Parker. His playmaking has always been wanting, although it's improved; he's got no range on his shot; and yeah, he plays off of guys with a far more intuitive grasp of the flow of a possession. How is he so much better than what Russell Westbrook was before he started to get his brains squashed into one single skull?

-From Ken Berger: When the Magic were eliminated by the Celtics last summer, Dwight Howard wrote up a list of perimeter creators he wanted and stuck it out there for all the world to see. What a great guy. This comes out (or back, I don't remember it) in a Berger piece about ... last night's drubbing. The question we're left with is, naturally, what's Howard thinking now? Vince Carter, who was supposed to be that perimeter threat last year, and presumably still now, called the loss to Miami "a wakeup call". The subtext here is whether or not it's fair to consider Vince relevant anymore, and with that, whether he's wiling to call himself irrelevant, take a back seat in anticipation of another scorer arriving. Players do that once the new kid's in town. But before? Ouch. Oh, and I initially thought ""It felt like the entire team landed on the back of my head" was about the pressure of the team's situation; it's really about his injury that everyone laughed at.

Note: I misread that first VC quote this morning -- both when it came, and what it referred. But that only mollifies the situation slightly. Thanks to Tray for pointing it out.

-The Sixers intrigue me. They have a critical mass of useful, encouraging, or RIGHT NOW pieces, at near-every position. But -- questions of rotation aside -- they inspire little confidence. It's not that the team is crowded and tense like steerage. I also have probably not adequately considered the Doug Collins Problem. But can it really be that things are so bad that Iggy wants out (no -- Broussard says everyone botched his original report)? Do they really badly need some sort of #1 to lead the way, be a little selfish, etc.? Can they be franchised by the Rockets management?

-The Warriors, unless Curry is dead this morning, somehow have more personality than in the Last Days of Nellie, while playing much more coherent ball. Guys like Biedrins and Wright seem to have spent the summer getting better just to make Nelson look bad. Monta is now one of the most totally kosher, and digestible, redemption narratives I've ever seen -- NO SACRIFICE. Talk to Eric Freeman sometime about his complicated feelings on Josh Hamilton, then I'll give you my really insensitive counterpoint. Anyway, to sum up the entire team with a tweet I delivered last night, WE ARE THE DORELL WRIGHT WE'VE BEEN WAITING FOR. Now if only my stupid fantasy league hadn't already snatched up the whole GSW roster in the draft.

-Blake Griffin mortal, Clippers demoted. I need to make some time to watch Cousins, once Evans is back. Evan Turner really surprised me against Miami.

Here is a song that is so perfect that it's perfect for any occasion. You could use it at a wedding or a funeral:



It's like every single thing I love about The Band, plus Memphis soul, and I never get tired of it. I wonder how many movies it's been in. It should showed up on This American Life, which probably happens more often than I think. Happy Halloween!

-Stray thought: After reading Kevin Blackistone's column on LeBron's ad, which connects that nagging final line with Muhammad Ali, I'm more confused than ever. Before I read that, I'd decided that "should I be what you want me to be" just didn't match up with every prospective response to "what should I do"? If it's a recasting of the question, then it's a punchline that negates much of the introspection, and willingness to put himself under the microscope, that came before. That Ali reference would seem to support that turn. But it's a Muhammad Ali quote. As KB points out, it's wholly inappropriate; if LBJ did change the world, it was only for very elite athletes.

The real effect, though, is just that of utter, icon-laden, obfuscation. A brilliant ad is ending, needs a flourish ... how about MUHAMMAD ALI!??!? You can't argue with that. Or fail to be moved by it, once you get it. Evoking (invoking?) Ali suspends all discourse. It's vague enough -- or more precisely, disjunctive enough -- that we're left with nothing there but FUCK YEAH SHIT IS DEEP LIKE ALI. Either it's a distinctly Nike-ish (think "Revolution") use of truly important cultural matter to signify, well, something important and deeply cultural by association, one that deflects any conclusion and leaves the ending vague and impressionistic. Or it's just crass. Either way, that last line drifts further and further away from the rest of the ad. They should just re-cut it without that final sentence. Just the shot of him gliding.

That was a lot of yelling. I'm going to read. I don't know why I waited so long to check out Lew Kirton, but here's a good song by him.

FreeDarko Player Rankings 2010-11 + BOOK TIME!

Today is a momentous day, so of course I slept three hours more than I meant to. The book is out! Starting today, FreeDarko Presents: The Undisputed Guide to Pro Basketball History is available everywhere, and ready to ship from the web. Also pay a visit to our store, where we've just added the much-requested MJ "long shadow" print, and check out our Q&A on NYTimes.com (and in print last Sunday). Also, PLEASE LEAVE AMAZON REVIEWS. They help our cause tremendously.

But as much as I would love to dwell in the past -- the above photo of a 1969 Connie Hawkins basketball camp in Pittsburgh is boss -- the present is once again here! With the 2010-11 NBA season about to jump off and get all frisky in your lap, for the second time ever, we present our FD Player Power Rankings. These were last conducted in October 2006. My, how the world changes, and doesn't. Don't ask about the method, or who was involved. Just know that, based on a far-reaching survey of FD associates, you have this list to guide you.

1. Kevin Durant
2. Rajon Rondo
3. John Wall
4. Russell Westbrook
5. Amar’e Stoudemire
6. Brandon Jennings
7. Anthony Randolph
8. Carmelo Anthony
9. Kobe Bryant
10. DeMarcus Cousins
11. Josh Smith
12. LeBron James
13. Monta Ellis
14. Gerald Wallace
15. Serge Ibaka
16. Rodrigue Beaubois
17. Tyreke Evans
18. Ron Artest
19. Steve Nash
20. Gilbert Arenas
21. J.R. Smith
22. Nicolas Batum
23. Chris Paul
24. Blake Griffin
25. Lamar Odom
26. Andre Iguodala
27. Stephen Jackson
28. Pau Gasol
29. Dwyane Wade
30. Derrick Rose
31. Andray Blatche
32. Terrence Williams
33. Larry Sanders
34. JaVale McGee
35. Joakim Noah
36. Brandon Roy
37. Francisco Garcia
38. Kevin Garnett
39. Stephen Curry
40. Tyrus Thomas
41. Deron Williams
42. Jrue Holiday
43. Danny Granger
44. Trevor Ariza
45. Ersan Ilyasova
46. Thaddeus Young
47. Amir Johnson
48. Hassan Whiteside
49. J.J. Hickson
50. Paul George

Discuss. We love you!

P.S. Like many of you, I freaked out early over the new LeBron ad. Here's my multi-layered reading of it; ignore the AOL comments. However, since last night, I've wondered about the last line. To me, the genius of the ad is that it suggests that LeBron himself wasn't always sure, or at least acknowledges that after a point, this summer had become a mess that no one man could make sense of. I like my "defiantly rhetorical" description.

The last line, though, seems to chip away at that fine balance. Asking the audience "should I be what you want me to be" sets up a you/me binary, as if the only complexity came when everyone tried to tell LeBron what to do. The admission that LBJ himself found himself sucked into the pit of confusion -- that it wasn't just nasty fans and media telling him what to do -- is a far more subtle, and charitable, version of events. I guess it can still be read that way, if others try and define/own James by telling him what he should do from afar. Still, it totally removes him from the equation, and suddenly it feels like blame is being assigned. The problem becomes us, not the all-encompassing clusterfuck I describe in my post. If you go with that interpretation of the ending -- perhaps added as a hook -- the whole ad is weakened, I think.

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.

THE TORLEOF: Earth Without Sorrow or Flesh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Encounters with Deities: The J-Zone interview

While Shoals talks shop with Dave Zirin, I'm gonna bring someone with a completely different perspective into the fold...

For those unfamiliar with J-Zone, there isn't a lot I can tell you that you can't find on his Wikipedia page: Producing for everyone from Biz Markie to the Lonely Island and E-40, dropping a string of classic albums, writing for Slam and for Dante Ross' website...The man played a seminal role in the (then-viable) independent hip-hop scene of the late 90s/early 2000s, rapping with as much personality as a young Eazy-E and cultivating "swag" before infants knew what swag was and consequently killed the term. He is perhaps best known for developing a distinct production style that follows in the tradition of Prince Paul, DJ Muggs, and Psycho Les, but is all his own. But beyond J-Zone's musical talents, he has also been a world-class tastemaker. His opinions on music, film, women, and fashion, have always been influential, and his hoops knowledge--which he often expounds upon on his must-check twitter feed--is critical. Zone was cool enough to give me his opinions on the recent NBA happenings, and what follows is our interview:

Dr.Lawyer IndianChief: Why do you think that in the US, NBA basketball consistently been third in popularity behind the NFL and MLB for the past few years?

J-Zone: Because there haven't been characters in the NBA like they used to have. Basketball players are unbelievably bland and boring individuals. With the exception of Ron Artest, AI, Shaq and Delonte West, who is quote worthy? These dudes are 28 years old and all they talk about is playing X-Box and being a Drake fan. In baseball, you have Carlos Zambrano dismembering a Gatorade machine with a baseball bat, then have Pedro Martinez claiming he'd wake up the ghost of Babe Ruth and drill him in the ass, with a pitch. Then you have Pedro throwing old man Don Zimmer to the ground and watching him roll about 5 miles. Baseball players still have jheri curls, which is a great thing. Keyshawn Johnson gave the NFL some life when he left a voicemail to his exes new man saying “he as nothing but free time” to whup his ass. Entertainment. The NBA has lost so much of it because these dudes have zero personality.

Dr. LIC: You've been pretty open on twitter about the Lebron situation and predicting he won't win a ring. Who do you think presents the biggest problem for the Heat? Do the Heat even make it out of the East?

J-Zone: It's easy to say “we just wanna win”, and insinuate that there will be no ego issues. OK. That’s D-Wade’s team. Remember when everyone packed up and went to LA in 2004, only to get mopped by Detroit? Those guys weren’t on the same level as LeBron, Bosh and Wade in terms of individual star power, but everyone just gave em the chip after the trades went down. And now, teams will be anxious to whup Miami's ass after LeBron guaranteed a bunch of titles. Despite all that superstar talent, I still don't see them getting it done. I’d still want Wade to take the last shot too, and I can’t see LeBron rolling with that when the time comes. I'm curious to see if they can get past Boston or Orlando, let alone whoever comes out of the west.

Dr. LIC: What is Lebron's legacy now? If he does end up winning a ring, does he redeem himself?

J-Zone: No. He's in a spot where he can't really win no matter how the chips fall. I don’t blame him for leaving Cleveland, but I thought just following the wave to Miami was a little weak. The difference in Jordan, Magic and Kobe -who I’m sure LeBron wants his name mentioned alongside- was they wanted to beat everyone, including their fellow superstars, with the help of one other key guy and a good supporting cast. Get some real help, but forming a dream team takes some of the fun out of it. I personally would’ve liked to see him in Chicago with Noah, Rose and Deng, but whatever. He’s fucked either way, it’s a Catch 22. If he wins, they’ll say he took the easy route and if he loses, he’ll be tagged as a bum. I’m sure he saw that going in though.

Dr. LIC: Any thoughts on LeBron thanking Akron, Ohio, but not Cleveland in his recent farewell newspaper ad? [Ed. note, this was before LeBron caved and thanked Cleveland in Akron]

J-Zone: Neither LeBron or Cleveland owe each other anything. Its like your first girlfriend, your whole social circle knows you as an item. But you reach a point where you hit a stalemate and break up before you marry. If the dude goes on TV and tells the world they’re breaking up before he tells the girl or if when shit goes wrong the girl tears him down, both are equally at fault. LeBron doing the whole ESPN thing was corny and arrogant in an unlikable way, but at the same time, grown ass men in Cleveland running around burning jerseys when they should’ve been at work or home with their kids is even stupider. It’s big business, players make moves all the time. If a 25 year old athlete is all your city has to be proud of, you’re in deep shit. Fuckouttahere. He leaves and the entire city nosedives? That‘s deep.

I knew he was outta there when the Cavs choked in the playoffs for the umpteenth time and they got booed crazy. And how many rings does LeBron have? Last time I checked, one, the one around his bathtub. So he, ESPN and everyone who felt indebted were all frontin. Only Kobe deserved that type of attention for a god damn trade and he probably wouldn‘t have even done that. Everyone involved was super corny. Unemployment is documented at 9%, and realistically its around 20%. At the time, oil was gushing into the Gulf. The amount of attention everyone gave that situation was disgusting. It warranted one day of headlines, no more. That shit was on the cover of the newspapers for a week straight. I thought Miami was a soft move, but at the same time this is a business. Fuckouttahere.



Dr. LIC: What are the Celtics trying to do stacking up old guys like Shaq and Jermaine O'Neal, following the signing of Rasheed Wallace last year?

J-Zone: Get endorsement deals with Ben-Gay and Motrin.

Dr. LIC: I know you've never been much of a Knicks fan, but for comparison sake, How can you contrast the D'Antoni style Knicks with Riley's Knicks with Van Gundy's Knicks, style-wise?

J-Zone: By their activities in May. Two of em are either still playing or explaining why they just lost. One of em has been done for over a month and is sampling D’Anillo Gallinari’s new summertime Cibatta bread.

Dr. LIC: Also, did you ever have any allegiance to the Knicks? If not, who did you follow growing up in NY?

J-Zone: I used to like the Knicks, especially in 1991-92. That’s when Greg Anthony jumped off the bench in a Hawaiian shirt and got into a brawl. But believe it or not, I was always a Blazers fan. Clyde Drexler was my favorite player growing up. The 1992 finals when they played Chicago was when I gave up and finally gave Jordan his props as the best ever. You couldn’t tell me shit about the Portland Blazers. Clyde, Terry Porter, Cliff Robinson, they were fuckin legit. I knew I wasn’t a die hard Knicks fan when I was cracking up at Reggie Miller just killin em and throwing Spike the choker. I watched that shit live, and I was lovin every minute of it. I was rootin for Reggie because he had the balls to straight shit on the Garden. He left without crutches, so in that case, the Knicks deserved to lose. I would've broke his legs the way he shitted on us!

Dr. LIC: Does Amare Stoudemire offer the Knicks any improvement over last year?

J-Zone: No. Well, maybe if Steve Nash finds a way to join the Knicks.

Dr. LIC: How do you feel about Amare's well-publicized trip to Israel and his quest to find his spiritual roots in Judaism?

J-Zone: Hey whatever makes the man happy, that’s his personal life.

Dr. LIC: What happened to Allen Iverson?

J-Zone: He’s probably back in the studio to do a part two to “40 Bars” and doing an album with T-Pain. Now that he’s out of the league, David Stern won’t care. I respect AI but he's the NBA's greatest all-time 21 player.

Dr. LIC: What has to happen for the Knicks to go .500 or better this year?

J-Zone: A whole lot of forfeits in the Atlantic division.



Dr. LIC: Any thoughts on the Nets moving to Brooklyn?

J-Zone: As much as downtown Brooklyn has been gentrified in recent years, the Nets’ audience will be primarily comprised of Idaho natives that are thrilled to be in the hometown of that Jay-Z guy.

Dr. LIC: Ron Artest or Lamar Odom? Who do you roll with?

J-Zone: Artest all day! They’re both from Queens, Ron is from Queensbridge and Odom is from Jamaica. Odom grew up not too far from me, I live in Jamaica. But marrying a Kardashian is not hip-hop. Thanking your psychiatrist after winning a title is very hip-hop. Ron-Ron all fuckin day.

Dr. LIC: Any other predictions for this season?

J-Zone: Delonte West will get caught on a Harley hiding a 22 in the bell of a sousaphone. That's my main man though, and my twin!

Two the Gull Way

Sometimes, you get an email so pure in its intentions, so rippling with information and connections, that you can basically steal it and make a post from it. So thank you, longtime reader Ian Ross, for bringing the following facts to my attention.

-Apologies if I'm late on this -- I kind of got sick of reading every single thing every single person in every single city touched wrote about LeBron -- but David Hyde column from the Sun-Sentinel, dated 7/11, has some real stunners in it. At least for someone who recently finished working on a book about NBA history. It's about not the evil players fooling the fire department, but Riley's persuasive powers. Central to all of this is his use of the Russell/Auerbach Celtics as a rhetorical device, even point of inspiration. The key passage:

"The Celtics won 11 titles in 13 years,'' he said. "That's the one dynasty."

Riley began throwing out names centering around Bill Russell on those Celtics teams like Bob Cousy and Jungle Jim Loscutoff. Sam Jones. K.C. Jones. Tom Heinsohn.

But the one name he left off, the one that began as coach and ended as team architect, is the one Riley's team and personal legacy chase now. So among the questions percolating around the Heat now, add this one: Will Riley go down as the Red Auerbach of the YouTube generation?

I left that last part on just because it sucks and isn't accurate, and shows how much this column buries its own quirky, if not brilliant, lede. Or, to be more exact, Riley's. I've written much about de-Jordan-ing Bron, which as Ian Thomsen has said, might be for the best for the league and its paradigm factory; many folks have pointed out that great teams all were deep as fuck. But no player has been as single-mindedly deconstructed in the name of winning as Russell, and no pox of talent more sublimated than the Celtics dynasty. Also, the Jungle Jim reference is so weird we should remember it forever. Paul Flannery told me this morning that his name -- just his name -- is retired, because someone more important (don't have time to cross-check, sorry) wore the same number.

No one's ever accused Bron of being a Kobe-like history buff, which is why it's so funny that Riley would mention Loscutoff, an enforcer who clearly didn't give up greener individual pastures by playing for team in Boston. But the genius of Auerbach's teams was that they were stacked to the point of congestion. And yet everyone put ego aside. It's the most extreme case of this ever, and from a bygone era. I want to know, though, why it would be totally invalid here -- and if we would mock James for wanting to be Russell to Wade's Sam Jones and Bosh's Heinsohn (that one needs work).

Okay, from same dude:

In the More Than a Game documentary, exactly 18 minutes in, Sian Cotton is talking about the decision to go to St Vincent's over Buchtel, and goes, "The African-American community had wanted us to bring our talents to Buchtel, and felt like we were traitors."

Also unnoticed (as far as I've seen) is the fact that the chapter in Shooting Stars where he and his friends decided to go to St. Vincent's is called "The Decision."

This really leaves you puzzled, doesn't it? The much-maligned "take my talents to" could be either a local, or hyper-local, or among-friends, idiom ... yet it's been picked apart like a political speech (whether or not LeBron should have been more careful, anticipating that reception, is another question). At the same time, that move and the title of the chapter suggest that hey, James has done this before. What was it about then? Camaraderie? Opportunism? I don't know. I'll go with "some of each", and make it the subtitle to my forthcoming LeBron James stop-time claymation epic.

A Grade-School Terror

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

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

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



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

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

Things Go Nowhere

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

IT'S NOT ABOUT A SALARY

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

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

I Can't Share Ranks

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

Constitute a Plane

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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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

I Knew I Was in Danger

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

Ask Me About the Baptist

It's come to this. Yes, it's come to this. I suppose there are many courageous thoughts to have about last night's Celtics win, like how much they deserve to win it all if that keeps up. I wake up dreaming of titles and go to sleep crying about them. I live like a champion. But while I've gotten in a few sidelong remarks about Rondo's progress, and how a player who has always fascinated me has really taken it to the streets . . . now, it is the time of reckoning. The dams of restraint, and fatigue, have burst, and I can do nothing today but wonder: how and why does such an athlete exist?

Philosophically speaking, Rajon Rondo is my ideal basketball player. I say this when, in about thirty seconds, I'll be asked to explain my feelings for John Wall on pre-taped radio. Don't get me wrong, I still believe in Wall and his ability to throw basketball into a tizzy. Rondo, though, takes not such a direct route to dominance. I have perhaps been too caught up in his autodidact's legend; it dovetails a little too well with both my love of Other-ly foreign players, as well as rumbling, unfettered creativity that in LeBron James, we trace back to joy, not method. His mode of presentation, though, is as much Garnett as is his freakish build and skill-set. KG is at once out of control and totally within himself, exploiting the world's perception of the mask he can't help. I don't feel bad saying that Rondo comes across as otherworldly and borderline autistic; Doc Rivers swears the man loves to communicate, but is hard to get to. For opponents, that veneer of weird, tinged with hostility and detachment, is damn hard to read. Thus, for Rondo, personality becomes a weapon.

If I'm stumbling, or raving, here, pardon. This has been building for a while and at some point, it couldn't grovel to responsibility all that much longer. At last night's SSSBDA meeting, I had a major breakthrough: Physically, Rondo isn't an alien, or a dinosaur. He's an alien-dinosaur. Or, as Kevin corrected, a dinosaur-alien. Alien-dinosaur would just be a space lizard; dinosaur-alien is creature from other realms overlaid with the qualities of a raptor. This is the first of several times I will repeat this statement: This is no physical being like Rondo. Yes, his arms are long, his speed beyond speech. But there's also his wiry strength, his internal gyroscope (at its best when spooling along with a bit of wobble), those impossibly broad shoulders, calculating gaze, and a face too smooth and empty for this town.



We are nearly arrived at the point of actual basketball. There's a pause here, a beat, and then no turning back. Here's what astounds me most about Rajon Rondo: He is pure style, with an almost nasty disregard for formalism. How often does Rondo make the same move twice? When he succeeds, does he attempt to repeat himself? And, more to the point, does anything in his game suggests he learned the canon, or anything resembling fundamentals? That's not to suggest that RR is a sloppy, or showy player. Nope, on top of all that, he makes the most gnarled, baroque maneuver turn into a given. There's nothing self-consciously fancy or stylized about him. Rondo simply creates, going on what works, and refusing to acknowledge boundaries of good taste or the existence of time-honored solutions. He acknowledges only the situation at hand, the players on the floor, and the forces he feels working against his mechanical will.

Rondo has no sweet spot, no geometry. Even the multi-valent Kobe Bryant tends toward certain areas. Rondo, he could be anywhere, and everywhere at once, toss up the shot or pass it off at any time. At all times, he knows exactly where he stands in relation to the basket and his fellow man. Most astounding of all is how, with Rondo, the most haphazard, loose, or wild moves will resolve into something utterly precise: a wild lay-up that bounces off the glass just so, a shovel pass swung from up high that hits the waiting man, an over-assertive dribble, nearly wild, that sheds all defenders and leaves him out in space alone. Most players get anxious or excited in that situation. Rondo carries himself like he's been there all along, like it's our fault we can't always see this. I believe somewhere in the archives, there's a piece about string theory and many dimensions and worlds unseen. That seems applicable here, as do out-of-phase sound and The Ghost Whisperer.

I suppose the lack of a jumper should bother me. Looking at the way he negotiates space, though, it's hard to fault Rondo for something as trivial as range. He can rearrange defenders like garden furniture, set them scattering with a flash of arms and legs that (yes, I'm resorting to musical analogies) is like the second line version of Ornette's early Prime Time. When we talk about LeBron James expanding basketball's parameters, Kobe Bryant seeing things others can't, or the presumed Frankenstein PG game of John Wall, we deal with—cue the Rumsfeld—the known busting apart at the seams. Yup, unknown knowns, where nevertheless we have the known as a foundation.

Rondo doesn't just work with a different foundation; he's anti-foundational, even. For himself, for the sport, even for the personae we try and latch onto as fans. He isn't progress, or variation, or even an eccentric. Rondo is the strangest player I have ever had the privilege of watching. To locate him in the game's unconscious is the safer, easier explanation. Rajon Rondo is an outsider—or an original who burrows that word back to its own lost beginnings. I have no idea if this kind of athlete happens more often than I think, but for now, I like to think I'm watching a true basketball alien.

Like a Can of Miracle Whip

WiltatKansas consistently has the best old NBA clips of anyone. If you hadn't caught onto that yet. This rookie Drexler is nice, but the call on it is even more amazing. See below for some typically bizarre late-seventies ball, with David Thompson, Bob McAdoo, Spencer Haywood, and Bobby Jones.

You should also READ THIS 2500-WORD THING ZILLER AND I DID ABOUT DEAD MOBSTERS TRYING TO CONVINCE LEBRON TO COME TO THEIR CITIES. I didn't make that up. We have already received a complaint that Al Capone is overrated.

Can't Find No Comfort, Don't Need No Relief

Some great talk in the comments about the contrast between the steeped-in-history Celtics-Lakers (at least as the league's trying to construct it) and the looming LeBron-lead master plan from without (within? no idea.) I know, the history thing isn't working so well with this year's teams, and James himself isn't explicitly leading the charge. But it's hard not to notice: on the one hand, we have the past glomming onto the now in ways reactionary and haunting (role of the Simmons book?). And on the other, the future that, even if you're cool with it, still stands to put players on top and give them their choice of colors.

Is it too much to suggest that the NBA/ESPN/ABC are in fact trying to push back against whatever radicalism comes to pass this summer? They have spent so long trying to get out from under Jordan's shadow, and now a new crop of stars seemed poised to do so. Except then they went and decided to undermine the very notion of tradition-through-sublimation. It had been coming for some time, post-Jordan, and been the popular fear, post-Jordan. Here's the thing, though: Jordan didn't do it, and no one else before the Class of 2003-based crew had the relevance to make it happen. They seemed headed in the right direction, whatever that means, and now they've really gone and realized exactly what the league always feared Allen Iverson would spread. It's apt, if accidental, that we're being treated to LeBron James's all-out blitz during the Finals. These Finals, and that players, of all things.

Let's face it, James doesn't need history like Kobe Bryant does. Kobe sits with film, and has become—in his age and relative wholesomeness—a reliable lodestar for old-meets-new. I've joked that LeBron should hire Kobe for reasons of growth. The difference between them, though, continues to grow this summer. Bryant is not only visibly older, he's also more readily absorbed now into not the post-Jordan morass, but a broader picture of How They Played the Game. His Nike ad involves siphoning in images from the last twenty years, including past campaigns that weren't about him (in the sense that Kobe is a single historical fact), plus a collapsing of Andre 3000/The Beatles that suggests not just cross-generational dialogue, but the importance of rejecting that rift. James, thought, reveals in his Larry King interview that he's a Jordan guy, which makes no sense considering his body and skills. However, while others have sought to imitate MJ (including Young Kobe), James simply adopts him in spirit, as the world-shatterer he entered the league as. This is the end of history.

In 2008, Lakers-Celtics screamed "bring the past back", except there was one kink. Both of those squads had been assembled that season. The Celtics invented the template for mercenary action that will be referenced many times this summer; the Lakers saw Andrew Bynum come into his own, then falter, and then soared only because of Pau Gasol's arrival—still incomplete at the time of the Finals. Maybe these two fit the Lakers-Celtics stereotypes well, in some rudimentary sense. However, this wasn't embracing the possibility of history, of an unbroken link to the past. That was all equivocation. Really, 2008 set the stage for what's coming after the Finals wind down. The Celtics now much more resemble a classic, categorized unit of the Russell years, maybe Bird's time if you think Paul Pierce is that ace. Lakers flow and spire, even as Ron Artest remains so key to altering the complexion of all that happens on the court without even making a sound (I'll say it again: NEW BATTIER).



James is not as crass as, say, so-and-so jumping teams for cash in the nineties. There are sound business reasons to work the mini-max, the Super Summit, and the shadowy plan to customize his destination as much as makes sense. This isn't pure self-interest. While it affects a limited number of players, this is somewhat earth-shaking, changing the way that not only the team and individual sync up when it comes to loyalty and such, but also the very question of who owns who. Who is accountable. Earning the right to a star, as opposed to simply danging cash in front of his face and expecting him to jump, alone, on to the next one. But—and here's the problematic one—history in sports has always been the history of institutions, or at least individuals against the backdrop of institutions (i.e. franchises). After Jordan, we worried it might devolve into Mad Max. Instead, though, we've gotten something more rational and, if done with tact, hard to argue with. In James, we have a player who has positioned himself against all history.

That raises another odd detail of this series. As I highlighted in an earlier post, and was also raised in the comments, Rajon Rondo aggressively rejects the past. He claims to have sprung, fully-formed, from some combination of other sports and Rondo's natural aptitude. Hence, an idiosyncrasy wholly distinct from LeBron's all-consuming template. Except, oddly, he's the one on this throwback Celtics. Would have made more sense if he'd been dominant in 2008, as opposed to playing a role. The recurring theory is that he's Cousy reborn, but even Cousy was referencing other styles. Rondo might be lying through his teeth or at least bending those teeth a little. Though doesn't seem self-conscious like that. Regardless, look at his game ... does this strike you as a man useful to anyone's agenda?

It all comes down to intention, and who struck first. LeBron as jerk, I cannot abide. LeBron as smasher of worlds, I have to acknowledge. If the twain meet, I'm not so pompous as to deny #1 if #2 does end up shaping the future—with results, and regardless of whether or not the past is ignore and the present defiled. For now, the past is pushing back hard. Whether this is a deliberate strategy, or just dope scripting, I have no idea. I can say, though, that is makes the present wild, incoherent, fresh, stressful, and subject to hourly reports. And that's ignoring the fact that there's an actual NBA Finals going on.