The Most You Can Do Without Speaking

I need to stop and get it together. Yesterday is a truly big one for this establishment, especially when you consider that we didn't do anything. TrueHoop tells us that Dr. Santiago Colas (of Go Yago!) at Michigan is using The Undisputed Guide as a textbook; then, the Mavs video team gives what is undoubtedly a shout-out to one of our founding members (go 58 seconds in).

Also, last night I realized that there are no new buzz players this year. That's why I feel like I'm slacking. Actually, there's one, one big one -- Blake Griffin -- and physics-like, he has stolen everyone else's light and plunder, or made their stores look puny. He is the great uniter and great divider -- what us League Pass fiends have been waiting for, maybe even more than Durant ever was. At the same time, though, he makes a mockery of all the time we spent waiting on players far less fantastical to shake up our Tuesdays. AND OUR TUESDAYS ALONE! Anyway, I'm not complaining. Griffin has made life so much more simple. You watch the big game, or you watch the Clippers. Or maybe the Warriors, if BG ain't on.

Can someone tell me the difference between End of the Year posts and Thanksgiving ones? Really, I don't get it. Am I supposed to be preachy here? I feel a lot more reflective; in late Novemeber I was mostly just mad about travel and disappointed at what wasn't working out the way I wanted it to in the NBA.

Speaking of total surprises from space, I wake up today (way, way late) to news that the Timberwolves -- already FD favorites for their stewardship of Love and Beasley -- are eyeing O.J. Mayo, have a good shot at Ricky Rubio coming over (there is now promise there, really), and ... hold it ... trading for Anthony Randolph. I think I speak for everyone when I say that, if these things come to pass, this will be the most FreeDarko team ever assembled. I couldn't even dream up one more in line with my core principles. Will stop now before I puke out tears of excitement. It's funny, though, that David Kahn may actually be more a kindred spirit than we ever thought. Those folks calling him a fool? They probably get bored with this site, too. So there. Happy New Year, Kahn. Phase One was risky, even silly, but if this is what's next, it was all worth it. You saw what talent would flourish, and are now in a position to bring in more Beasleys. Just keep letting other teams think you're doing them a favor.

Now I have to wonder if this means all-out war between Ziller and myself. Although I suspect he would forgive all, and do penance, if that above-stated team came to pass. Rationality only holds until it is outsmarted. Kahn may do just that.

I am going skiing in a mountain cabin and may die. So here is the last Works of the year, with New Year's Resolutions for players, and Eric and me. Also, the long-promisd discussion of age in the NBA. Look for me on the Awl sometime Wednesday, too. Merry Christmas to all!

There Is No Scrap Impartial

Don't miss the Morning News roundtable on sports and writing, with Pasha Malla, Will Leitch, Katie Baker, Chad Harbach, Nic Brown, and me.

I think we finally have our Psychological Man. His name, much to my utter surprise and possible chagrin, is DeMarcus Cousins.

As long as this site's been live, we've harped on player psychology. Not "what is a point guard thinking in the clutch", but as best we can, tried to determine what makes these dudes tick. Especially when, as it so very not the case in other sports, uniform execution simply won't do, and the decisions players make—their respective styles, if you will—can't help but reveal something about them as people. It may be only a thin breach here and there, through which little light is admitted, or gaping blast of individuality, but either way there's humanity in them there ball players.

Somewhere out there, a unified theory of FreeDarko presents itself in the heavens. For now, I'd go so far as to say that style and personality are the strong and weak force of our NBA cosmology, which is why no amount of boring-ass critiques will make me lose interest in Kobe Bryant. It's also why Gilbert Arenas was for so very long our patron saint. His entire public existence depended on either riding or struggling against that interpretive undercurrent "quirk". With the locker room incident and FINGER GUNZ, it went so far as to suggest that, in fact, he had been (figuratively, duh) swept out to sea. At some point, the joke ceases to be on the rest of the world, and out-there behavior becomes either sad or self-destructive.

That's also what happened with Michael Beasley, whatever happened with Beasley. He entered the draft speaking with uncommon candor—which in retrospect, turned out to be a "don't let me do this" cry for someone to keep him in school. At the time, though, it really seemed as if teams were being forced to confront the possibility that players could be weird, and yet still thrive. Arenas was a high-wire act, someone who played up his shtick for commercial gains and then found himself seemingly fall victim to his own act. Beasley entered the league not playing pranks and committing absurd gestures, but simply refusing to make sense. Again, at the moment it's hard to say he was taking a stand for anything but his own immaturity. And I mean that in the most light, sympathetic way possible.

All of which brings us to DeMarcus Cousins. You all know the story by now. Cousins was, all the way back to his high school days, branded "a problem". He didn't have Arenas's charm or Beasley's enigmatic qualities. DeMarcus Cousins had, as they say, an attitude. He was not a high-character guy. Supposedly, he fought with coaches, loafed, and wouldn't stay in shape. Whatever had happened at Kentucky, where he proved so dominant that John Wall was often relegated to a supporting role, was fool's gold compared to the monster he would become as a pro. It didn't help that, in many ways, the most apt comparisons the pros offered were Zach Randolph, Eddy Curry, and reaching back a ways, Derrick Coleman (that one more than ever after Vegas, but I'm getting ahead here).

I was staunchly anti-Cousins, though mostly owing to the fact that I thought his college career was a mirage and his height not what it turned out to be. When the whole thing got all weird and paternalistic, I realized which side justice smiled upon. Cousins was trapped in a strange rhetorical bind best described as "worst available". He was the bad seed of the draft, the high-risk, high-reward guy who got all the ink, and of course. Not every draft class is so lucky as to have one. But once anyone can be stuck in the "bad kid" or "problem" category, they will catch hell up until they prove otherwise.



Beasley, incidentally, saw his stock of evil rise (fall?) as the draft approach. Draw your own cause and effect conclusions here, but Cousins loomed larger and larger as a talent and became more and more of a potential thug creature. Don't blame FreeDarko; we dispatched Joey Litman to meet Cousins and observe him acting like the kid he was. Beasley had said "I'm a kid", but for him that opened the door out onto all sorts of weirdness. Cousins really just came off as sweet, likable, and hardly the kind of ass who would warrant such premature nay-saying.

Fast forward to the Vegas league, where Cousins's debut was awaited almost as eagerly as Wall's. When he proved even more of a force (granted, Wall had very little to prove), and flashed skills and awareness that had once been mere fluff in the mouths of his biggest supporters, Cousins instantly became the second-biggest star among the rookies. That attitude we heard so much about? Damn right it's there. But it's fire, intensity, and the desire to flat-out destroy his opponent, especially other big men. It's exactly what so many other bigs are lacking, and why they end up a very different kind of bust. Cousins rages because he cares. It's that simple. To say that his personality can be rough or stubborn at times is to say that he's a gamer. Attitude on the court, if it's this kind of edge and determination, is the exact opposite of what off-court attitude will sow.

And it's not like Cousins is lacking in self-awareness, something we can debate all day about Arenas or Beasley. The Timberwolves, of course, tried to throw him off by antagonizing and harassing him, expecting him to crack and show the lunatic no one wanted to draft (including them). Except as soon as Cousins caught on, he disengaged himself and opened scoffed at the tactic. Does this sound like a wayward brat to you?

All of which brings us back to psychology. Cousins did, indeed, possess many of qualities NBA scouts feared in him. Except he possessed them in a way that manifested itself primarily on the court, where they were a decidedly good thing. Differentiating between on and off-court personality, as well as mapping out their intersection, has never been more important than now. What's more, the "good kid"/"problem" binary has revealed itself to be, if not a farce, at least utterly simplistic, the kind of clap-trap that no journalist—much less a scout—should bother to hang his hat on.

Cousins might seem to call into question whatever it is that Arenas and Beasley represented. On the contrary, in his contradictions, he make more urgent than ever the need to develop a more psychologically sophisticated approach to assessing prospects. Arenas asserted the right to be kooky, unpredictable, and obsessive; Beasley, incoherent, compelling and loud. That was a fair description of each at their best, and if their stories ended today, each would serve as a cautionary tale against this kind of player. Cousins, though, makes the case for the development of something new, something that might actually better equip a team for an Arenas or Beasley—that is, anyone other than an outright bust.

Earlier today, Ziller wrote about Rashad McCants. McCants, it seems, was Cousins before Cousins, and had the bad luck to not be born very tall. No one has yet been able to tell me exactly what it is that makes McCants so horrible and unemployable. Maybe he's not the best defender, and there have been some confounding incidents with scheduling and contracts (like TZ's post today). But McCants himself believes he had been blacklisted, and I'm inclined to believe he's not far off. McCants deserves a chance to succeed based on his abilities, not some shit-poor conception of what makes for good and bad soldiers in a mechanized world that never really existed in the first place.

Bend String on Zither

It is with great weariness that I begin this post on Michael Beasley and his rehab situation. I feel like I already pushed forth the envelope of flippancy in my Baseline post on the matter (damn, that works well in a self-referential sense). Maybe too far if it turns out that Beasley gobbling down pills or fall-down drunk all the time.

But when we posted that tattoo twit on Friday, the bags didn't even cross our mind. Maybe we're content to call a bag a bag; maybe we just were't super-scanning the background for too-thrilling data on what a 20 year-old millionaire does in an empty hotel; maybe we know that Beasley probably smokes and plays video games in all his spare time, but just didn't care. Whatever our over-liberal reasoning, the next morning it turned out we'd missed out on a MONSTER SCOOP: Michael Beasley photographed himself with pot-a-phenalia. What a moron.

What became difficult to discern in the flurry of typing that followed was whether Beasley was 1) in the wrong for smoking 2) was dumb for getting caught 3) needed to avoid all perception of smoking, since he had in the past 4) needed to cover his ass better. I was briefly working on a column that tried to link Beasley to Bolt, explaining how skepticism and suspicion was ruining sports, or at least our consumption of it. Or at least making blogs into speculative, uninformed, worthless tabloids that did little more than all squint at the same blurry image, or process the same publicly available circumstance, before giving voice to the "fan in the streets" or "what the mainstream's afraid to say." An unfortunate blurring of function, if you ask me.



Back to the Beasley at hand. Before the window into his soul—I mean, the Twitter account—hit the deck, Beasley threw out a couple of twits that were equal parts morbid, goofy (if you're threatening to take your own life, please limit the number of exclamation points), off-hand, paranoid, impulsive, and, sorry, but culturally specific. Among the many great contributions Tupac made to the world was the trope of imminent doom, brought about by fame, fortune, public scrutiny, and doing shit to piss people off. I admit that Beasley's twits were erratic, but they also fit readily under this rubric. So there might a matter of cross-cultural mis-communication here.

But hey, today, Beasley's checked into rehab, John Lucas is running the show, and we'll see those "possible substance and psychological issues" scrubbed right out of him! Excuse me if I'm not inclined to take this 100% seriously, especially as Yahoo! also reports that it was Riley who made Beasley 'fess up to his involvement in Rookie Transition-gate well after the fact. Beasley is weird dude, one whose personality makes him a fascinating and frustrating public entity. I can only imagine how it is for a team that's invest millions in him. The same goes for this lingering weed association. Why not attach "troubled" to his name once and for all, throw into rehab, make a show of it, and trot him out for 2009-10 with a firm sense of how he's supposed to conduct himself as a pro?

Except that's not what rehab's about. And "troubled" shouldn't simply mean "wacky" or even "pot smokin'." This might be a stigma that haunts Beasley for life, all in the name of public presentation couched in the language of "possible substance and psychological issues." That's the matter-of-fact take on it. There's also the rather ghastly thought that Beasley's being poked and prodded in hopes of uncovering some explanation for his behavior, reprogramming him rather than looking to subject him to the ultimate disciplinary sham/PR cover-up. Michael Beasley is young and foolish, but there's no reason to presume he's got loose screws just because he's poorly-behaved and off-kilter. You can tack various degrees of sinister, or ruthlessly capitalistic, to that.



All this goes on the assumption that 1) Beasley is not indeed insane, since anyone who observed him in college can see he's toned himself down even under the greater stress posed by the pros 2) it's only pot, since a coked-out Beasley would be even more of a nightmare, and a Vin Baker-drunk Beasley would probably have gone to sleep in a giant ditch of his own digging by now (I mean that literally, not figuratively). If, however, this is intended to get Beasley help in earnest, the strategy seems awfully sloppy. Sorry, no pothead demands immediate detox. If the loopiness points to anything deeper, wouldn't it make more sense to first just have him talk to a doctor? Oh, I forgot: Whenever a famous person is unwell, or might be, your spirit them away to rehab so the world can't watch, and they can be spared the humiliation of being picked apart any further in public.

Unless I am totally wrong, and Beasley's been shooting speedballs before every game, this a ton of wasted resources, breath, and bed space for a kid whose long-term mental health—whatever its current state—would probably benefit from a vacation and some trips to a psychologist. But rehab sends a message to the world, and to Beasley. Like jail. Never mind that, if someone sick wants to get well, he needs to do so of his own accord. Threatening and intimidating Beasley onto the straight and narrow by making him hear about men who lose everything and spend their mornings looking a vein. . . it's an insult to Beasley, those addicts, and anyone who ends up working on his "case."

Normal people have to undergo some kind of in-house screening before entering a rehab facility. That Beasley got green-lighted immediately, when his situation would seem to demand at least some preliminary treatment before getting recommended for these places. Maybe I'm out of touch with the treatment of addiction, or the best way to deal with a recreational drug user whose behavioral issues only matter because he's a gigantic business asset. It's just hard for me to read this stuff and not laugh at the whole thing, while feeling a little bad for Beasley—who might have missed out on a chance for an appropriate, not nuclear-level, intervention.

All the Wheels of Destiny

First, matters of business:

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

Links=Freedom

A couple of quick thoughts before my mother hits town:

-Not sure if you've been following this, but apparently my half-assed joke about C.J. Miles's mic prowess alienating Larry Miller was taken WAY too seriously in Utah. Oddly, they made no reference to my concerns about the other C.J. Miles. After two days of trying to explain sarcasm from scratch, I'm now hit with an odd confluence of snark and reality: C.J.'s signed an offer sheet with OKC, despite having skipped the RMR and done little to boost his stock with Utah or others.

All of which raises the question: For all of my bald-faced assaults on Oklahoma City, there could be a regional appeal for certain players. Not that OKC is Dallas, TX, but it's closer to Dallas than any other city in the league. And really not that far from Houston. This may not be a draw for tons of free agents; however, in the case of Miles—a preps-to-pros guy three years removed from Skyline—this nowhere is certainly preferable to the nowhere of Utah. Especially if he'll get more minutes in the Dust Bowl.

The big irony here: My "joke" was that Miles sounded a lot more exotic and regional on the track than Dee Brown, who if memory serves was awfully peppy and accessible. So if the location of the [OKC team] makes it attractive to Miles, then, wow, my silliness inadvertantly might have made a point.

-Sneaker wars, stuff I barely follow: Darren Rovell says that Jennings is a hotter property than Rose or Beasley. Rose is the kind of player who needs to display some genuine excellence before the tone they'll probably take makse sense. Beasley presents all kinds of challenges, though, I don't see why Barkley (not Arenas, he's not that dorky) isn't the prototype here. Jennings, on the other hand, has unmistakable flair to his game, already has the image thing down pat, and now has this socio-political crusader thing going. You have to wonder how much they'd ever explicitly reference the Italy thing in a commercial. But certainly, it gives him a kind of cachet, and worldliness, and other NBA rooks—if we even want to call Jennings that—can't match.

How Many Angles in a Vortex?

Note: I've got a new Sporting News column on the draft and gender, or something. This is longer.

When we were batting around draft ideas, Ty Keenan suggested that Mayo (and to some degree, Walker) were in the unique position of having their value peak, crash, and then rise up from the ashes in redemption—all before the draft prognostication even really got under way. We all decided that this was a function of undue hype, a circumstantial shutdown of the wild and woolly HS days. They had to come crashing down before, in this new climate, either could be viewed fairly. And then, the positives stood out again, the very ones that had set them on a pedestal in the first place. This is rational, folks, if a little awkward.

But the Michael Beasley's ride through the pre-draft rapids has been a lot less transparent. Even heading into the NCAAs, most people had Beasley penciled in at number one. Sure, there was the shady recruiting stuff, that WaPo piece, and rumors of a bad attitude and poor work ethic. Yet his one-and-done campaign had been such a freight-train of talent, his game so insistent, and so much of the negativity quelled by his on-court progress and words from the behind the scenes, that Beasleys PR problems seemed a thing of the past.

THEN: Rose's tournament ascendency, the "character issues" revisited as the draft became more real, and the lukewarmness of Paxson and Riley. Suddenly, Beasley was again a bad seed, this draft's problem child, Derrick Coleman redux just waiting to happen.



Or was he? In a blink, Beasley made his now-famous "I'm just a kid" comments. Was he dead serious all the time? No, but he'd probably grow out of that, and anyway, wasn't it his right to have a personality? This site and others rushed to brand him the new Gilbert Arenas. A vote for Beasley was a vote against staid hypocrisy, against buttondown orthodoxy in the way the NBA treats and represents its players. He became a martyr, fighting valiantly—if somewhat obliviously—to let players be themselves, to allow them to grow up in public instead of damaging them by expecting too much, too soon. Where Kwame Brown lay in a lifeless heap, Beasley planted a tree and saw it flower.

Stay with me here: The backlash was that, fine, Beasley's a kid, and a light-hearted one at that. And yet the truly elite teens—like, for instance, his best friend Kevin Durant—have that inner fire evident from the get-go. There are growing pains, even moments of weakness when the weight of expectations causes buckle. However, this line of work means working past these episodes, not glorifying them. Riley's disdain for Beasley's goofiness may have been an overreaction, and perhaps too moralistic. However, Riles does know basketball, and whether or not Bealey was defiling the game, it's safe to say that a failure to keep a straight face in the workout told us something about Beasley's disposition. Not a bad guy, but a space cadet, which sometimes seems like a liability in, say, Arenas.

At this point, there was talk of Beasley dropping to #3, or at least being dismissively traded by Miami (way to keep that chip shiny!). And thus, another trope of Arenas reared its head: The feisty underdog. Damn it, Michael Beasley would prove the likes of Riley wrong. He would tear up the league, and show the establishment how wrong it had been to ever doubt him. That's why you have ESPN picking him to blog his pre-draft experience, as well as make short videos brimming with both vitality and slightly unsettling unpredictability. The cult of Beasley was in full swing, and somehow, was as much about sympathy, a feeling for the warm and fuzzy victim who just wanted to have fun, as the bad-ass he portrayed on the court.



There was an imbalance there, and it's being corrected now. As of today, Michael Beasley isn't the king of the freaks any more, he's a misunderstood People's Champ who, when you get down to it, is all about wreaking havoc on the court. All the silly stuff, that's a most elevated version of swagger, pitched so high and relentless that resolves into a reckless calm. He's Amare, and maybe even The Wire's Snoop. Beasley will be on a vendatta from the second he hits the court, one without any of the eccentricity or elegance of Gil's. There will be dunks, and blocks, and threes over unsuspecting PFs. In terms of demonstrativeness, Garnett had better watch his back. He'll be a sneaker magnet, in part because he's a laugh riot (PREDICTION: If he went Nike, the ying/yang ads with him and Durant would be instant classics), but also because of the dynamism of his game.

Here's where we hit the inevitable question: Who is the real Michael Beasley? Of course I don't really know, and with someone who hasn't even hit the league yet, there's that much less to go on. But I suspect he's a combination of all these things, a series of contradictions—some imposed upon him, some stubborn and internal. It's a testament to his charisma, or maybe just the laziness of a media that has covered him like a political candidate, that he's been subject to this parade of monolithic characterizations. He's an icon waiting to happen, but paradoxically, we might have to settle for one with murky edges. In the two months since the lottery, Beasley's already gone through a Bowie-like parade of makeovers. That has to be reason to stop and reasses our mode of judgment.

What's more, there obviously a connection between these conflicting perception of him and his game. No one's labeling him a tweener, but Beasley's hardly getting the kind of "change the game" love that fell Durant's way. And yet, is he any less confounding, or versatile, a player? Sure, he can't play guard, but he's already more physical than KD will ever be. I don't want to say that the uncertainty his style causes has created a persona in flux, but it's pretty safe to say that the inverse is true. And that, if there is some chicken/egg at play here, it might be a long time before these questions get settled.

Murky Invasion

The Official FreeDarko Mock lurches toward completion. ETA of this afternoon, maybe willing? In the meantime:

-In case you're still seething over us and the Celtics. . . lap up this latest Quotemonger. There are Green Guys in it, but I think I'm pretty fair and friendly.

-Getting an email from Keith Olbermann was really rad, even if it forced me to admit I'm full of shit.

-Yesterday, I took a look at a certain plaintive Garnett commercial and found myself affected as ever. Dr. LIC claims that this, more than anything else, makes him feel happy KG got the ring. I can't decide if the sadness it visits upon me is about Garnett's lasting pathos, or missing that pathos, which would be a little weird and mean.

Then, I started digging up some of the classic Adidas ads from around that period. Shit was really weird, and pretty visionary. The T-Mac/Clipse joint? McGrady with wings and flame? The Infinity Gauntlet-like one with Duncan, McGrady, and Garnett being built in an ethereal workshop? And then, it turns to the Basketball Brotherhood, which is about as down-to-earth and de-fantasicized as these things get. I'd call that the 2007-08 Celtics of brand strategy.

Nate Jones and I were talking about the sneaker game yesterday, and he suggested that Adidas decided to brand itself and go from there, instead of developing their unique players as brands. The former makes sense with Duncan and Billups, but Garnett and T-Mac certainly lend themselves to the latter—what Nike's done with Melo some (B.More), and, remember, what made Jordan such a revolution in the first place. Nate submitted Arenas as a step in the right direction, but I think that went too far. Those shorts were more likely to make you eat your shoes and set money on fire.



Randomly, this is where Beasley comes up. He's going to be a star, and has absolutely indomitable personality. I can't imagine anyone keeping a straight face as he gets squeezed into the template of Brand Jordan drama and honor, or Adidas's sentimental grind. Seems inevitable that a brand would have to break tone with him.

Oh, and more Beasley: This him to the Sonics possibility has to count for something. If any team is in a position to get the real story on him, it's Seattle. Plus, if you figure Durant's going to resent ownership at some point soon, and will likely leave when he can. . . all that changes if they bring his best friend on to form a ridiculously awesome tandem of contrasts and versatility. Despite my hatred of Clay Bennett, I would buy some season tickets if that came to pass.

Ramifications are Regrets With Good PR

Given that I am now officially rooting for a Detroit-San Antonio finals, I choose to focus on the fact that draft season has officially started rather than the fact that Mike Brown's offense and the non-joke "You look like you should be floatin' on top of a parade" have made me dead inside. (Randomly: If you take the relevance of Woody Allen, the man, from Bananas to pre-Annie Hall and the relevance of Woody Allen's film's from the early-to-mid nineties, and factor in the obvious cultural divide, I think you have Tyler Perry. And Tyler Perry being more relevant than Spike Lee during the NBA Playoffs has to be the ultimate coup, right?)



Beasley/Rose is a great #1 debate, partly because Beasley is more established coming out of K-State while Rose is a question mark after running the point for a near-championship squad, that Beasley is a better player both now and down the road but Rose seems destined to play on better teams than Beasley in both cases, because of the constructive qualities of their respective talents. And before this draft is said and done, I'm pretty soon B-Easy is going to file a lawsuit against Derrick Coleman.

Now, I do not argue any of these specific points, but the general notion of him is, I believe, still a little off-center. Derrick Rose, the wisdom goes, is more than a set of hops, crossovers, and flat-footed jumpers, for HE IS A POINT GUARD. All the reports on him out of high school were that he was, indeed, a true point guard, and as he neither proved or disproved those notions in Memphis' offense, he is now pregnant with the possibility of being a psychotic hybrid of Jason Kidd and Devin Harris.



The one comparison I haven't heard for Rose amid the sea of Kidd, Harris, and young Steve Francis is the player he's most similar to, the best point guard still playing in these playoffs, last year's finals MVP, and the guy who absolutely cut the Lakers to shreds in the 1st half of tonight's game. (I know I'm breaking the unwritten rule of acting like every win in the playoffs was a direct result of the victorious' team's grand plan-last year, we were one miracle jumper short of hearing about how the Pistons had successfully kept LeBron James from getting his teammates involved down the stretch. Tony Parker was absolutely running amok in that first half, and it was awesome, so we're just going to pretend the second half never happened for the purposes of this post.) Parker operates the Spurs' offense within the happy medium of Duncan's consistent bland solidarity and Ginobili's sporadic dominance, and has won 3 championship rings, but is still denied the distinction of being a POINT GUARD, and thus exist as a suitable archetype for Derrick Rose.



In the past, the point guard position has been one of deception, both at the micro level, with a game built upon crossover dribbles and look-away passes, and at a macro level-somehow, the smallest player on the floor, the one furthest away from the basket and thus the highest difficulty of making a basket, must convince the defense that he is more dangerous than the behemoths who surround him and then quickly capitalize upon their mark's foolish dalliance with a deftly placed pass.

The brief and glorious age of the Iversonian scoring point was also built on games that depended on shifting the reality of the court to something more favorable to their talents, shifting the conventional straight angles of pick-and-roll drives and post-and-clear games for staunchly geometry-defying and improvisational crossover games of cat-and-mouse on the perimeter meant to give the defense the notion that Steve Francis was seriously about to drive straight into three defenders so that he could pull a quick fake back and pop a mid-range jumper.



But here's the thing-point guards no longer need subtlety in order to maintain a deadly arsenal. The best ones are the most dangerous scorers on the floor in conventional reality, and no longer need to use their talents to create an alternate reality in which the defense believes this to be true.

Nash and Paul, the two leading assist men in the league, show the bridging in the gap between the past and the future of the position. Nash is probably the weakest guy on the floor most nights, and would probably finish near last in a dead footrace with his man on a given night, but he makes offenses go through his ability to slip passes to Amare on pick-and-rolls and his ability to draw defenses to places they shouldn't possibly be and consequently chastise them-somehow Paul, on the other hand, operates not by fooling defenses but by putting the fear of god into them-if Chris Paul is getting set to drive the lane, emergency precautions must be taken, because he's either going to blow right by the 2nd defender or put a teardrop on his forehead. David West, Tyson Chandler, and Peja aren't left wide-open because of a defense that has been hoodwinked, but a defense left without a better option-with the exception of the Chandler lob, the "easy" 18-footers that David West and threes that Peja Stojakovic enjoy are given by a defense that is willing to accept them instead of letting CP3 take their lane.



Nash's passes are his acts of aggression, while Paul's passes are gifts of a defense begging for mercy, as evidenced by the fact that Nash throws a respectable 4 assists for every bad pass while Paul throws a filthy 10 assists for every bad pass. Obviously, both Nash and CP3 are special offensive players, and Paul is capable of creating passes and Nash is extremely capable of scoring for himself, but their games are based on fundamentally different principles. We've never really seen guys with Paul's combination of speed, the ability to put the ball in the hole, and decision-making; even Isiah never came remotely close to shooting the percentages CP3 shot this season.

We're seeing point guards who are dangerous in their own right replace those who create danger right in front of our eyes-witness Deron Williams realizing that him barreling through the lane or popping a three when they went under the screen was far more dangerous than Carlos Boozer trying to figure out how tough of a shot he could create from 6 feet out, Mehmet Okur trying to prove himself as the Turkish Rasheed Wallace, or Andrei Kirilenko trying to figure out his shooting range in preparation for the Olympics. (Quick note: There's "Hey, he's the next so-and-so!" and then there's Karl Malone and Carlos Boozer. Height, Position, Complexion, Draft Snubbing, mid-range catch-and-shoot game, vague unlikeability, and now propensity for imploding in the playoffs. If you could be described as a "little Mexican girl," stay away from Carlos Boozer. You do not want to discover the depths of this rabbit hole.)



Also, look at Rajon Rondo saying I AM A STARTING POINT GUARD ON A 66-WIN TEAM AND SHALL BE RESPECTED AS SUCH in game 5 of the Cavs series before being told to go back to his corner for the rest of the series. Witness guys who have speed and passing ability, as well as passable outside shots, like Sebastian Telfair, Sergio Rodriguez, Luke Ridnour, Steve Blake, Carlos Arroyo, and Raymond Felton experience pine because they can't finish inside like Parker, Paul, Williams, Nash, or Calderon.

Look, I love true point guards who handle with aplomb, throw gorgeous dimes to cutters who didn't even know they were open, and weave fearlessly through much larger men. Hell, I watch Brandon Jennings' YouTube video like 8 times a day and dream of a team attuned to the game their leader tells them is happening rather than one determined by the rote guidelines of reality. Great point guards are like great pitchers, creating their own reality through their skills in order to equalize their disadvantage against all those they face.



But whatever the impetus was for the little-man-finishing explosion (it could just be a rare confluence of special players, or the fact that everyone's so much more athletic now than even 10 years ago that the short guys are much closer to the rim than they were before, but put me down for the new rules on this one-in 2004-2005, LeBron broke out, Dwayne Wade absolutely exploded, and Allen Iverson's TS% went up by 5 percent. Oh, and Tony Parker's FG% went from 44.7% to 48.2%.) In any case, these new dangerous point guards have thrown the gauntlet to all others that the domain of the huge can be not only competed in, but conquered by those who are small and fast, and that deception is no longer necessary in order to achieve dominance.



Derrick Rose can absolutely shoulder a team from the point guard position and lead all to the promised land. But to do so, he will do so by being what those who he should supposedly aspire to follow could only effectively masquerade as-the most dangerous scorer on the floor. HOLY CRAP ROSE WADE WRIGHT MARION PHI SLAMMA JAMMA HATH RETURNED.

Of Golden Eagles and Maltese Falcons

I've been on this planet for sixty-three years now, and I've found that there are only a few rules that are worth following as closely as their nomenclature would dictate. I mention this because at the beginning of the events in question I was knowingly violating one of the rules I'd made for myself. It wasn't yet noon, and I was locked into a coaches-only meeting with my assistant, a Mr. Jack Daniels. Those who had worked with him extensively often found that he was a whole lot of fun to have around and could lead to some extreme short-term success, but in the end would leave you worse off than when you started with him. But he was always there when you wanted him to be, didn't run his mouth, and he at least gave you the illusion that you were always in control. In my book, that put old Dr. Jack at least one up on Larry Brown.

As I mentioned, I tried to refrain from the bottle before the Miami sun reached its throne and enticed the lifers to enter the safety homes and the Spring-break crowd to leave their clothes, but when you're staring down the barrel of a 13-win year, sometimes you have to remind yourself why you had to make the Goddamn rule in the first place. I explained this logic to my doctor. He told me that if I could convince my liver to only have trouble processing what I drank when we were over .500, then there wouldn't be a problem; but seeing as to how I wasn't even able to get Dorell Wright to provide consistent weak-side help I'd be better off just limiting my minutes, if I knew what he meant.

I thought of this as I poured out my drink. There was a knock at my door, and it swung open before I had a chance to respond. My first reaction was a sense of relief that it wasn't Dr. Greenthorpe, which in retrospect was somewhat inappropriate. She was taller than at least one of the players I had on payroll, with legs that looked like a pair of Eucalyptus trees. Shit, I know I'm getting old when a pair of legs like those reminds me of Central Park and not a co-ed named Lacey back at the UK who, I'm told, runs a Whole Foods now but wasn't too picky about what she put in her mouth back in 1964. Well, that and Joe Smith being underrated lets me know I'm getting old. And yet I digress.

"My name is Nicole. I represent the interests of the ownership group."

I thought about wondering aloud just which of the owner's interests Nicky represented, but thought better of it. Even old guys like me have to watch our mouths nowadays.

"As you well know, this upcoming draft is going to be a defining choice for this franchise in the coming years."

Oh yeah, I knew. Everyone knew that. Paul from accounting knew it, and I don't think he could tell you the difference between Kobe Bryant and Kobe Beef. Kina from ticket sales knew it, and she thinks God Shammgod was the guy Lew changed his name for. Ricky Davis knew it. We even shut down The Kid, Udonis, and Marion so as to better help ourselves go for dead last. Like I told Chris the one time I can remember looking up at her when both of us had all of our clothes on, if you're going to do something, you might as well go all the way with it.

"I've been sent here to provide you all the best knowledge on the possible prospects and make sure you have everything you need to make the decision that will best benefit this franchise. I've obtained game film, recommendations from coaches, and comprehensive statistical models so as to give you the best possible information on all the prospects. Right now management is really high on this K-State kid, Michael Beasley, and…"

"Hold it, right there, Nicky, I don't have many rules but the ones I have, I stick to. And one is to not trust anyone under 20 with significant responsibility unless there are clear labels."

I punctuated that by finishing my drink. Hopefully Nicky hadn't attended any of my speaking engagements, but I'm pretty sure I'd have been able to pick her out of the crowd that usually shows up at those things.

"If I'm going to break my rules for this B-Easy, I'm going to make sure I know what the kid's deal is."

"Well that's why I'm here, Mr. Riley, I'm to give you game tape and…"

"Nicky, Lew Alcindor didn't learn the hook by watching Better Basketball, Magic didn't learn how to pass by hitting tires or learn to screw from Beyond the Green Door, and contrary to what you may have heard, I didn't learn principles of leadership from MacBeth. I didn't meet my wife on eHarmony and I'm not making a top-three pick based on tape. Get your coat, Nicky. We’re hitting the road.”

She gave me a look like I’d just suggested we trade The Kid for Jermaine O’ Neal. I don’t know if it was because she thought the idea to be out was insane or because she’d never seen any possible benefit in covering herself up, but she thought I was crazy either way.

“But…you’re the coach. Don’t you have to stay here until the season ends, to watch over practices, or set the rotations, or make the substitutions, or something?”

Just then she looked out my window onto the practice court, where Chris Quinn was taking bets on whether or not he could dunk. By the time Mark Blount and Earl Barron were engaged in a left-handed 3-point contest, my point made itself clear to her without me needing to say a damn thing. She put on her coat, although it’s worth noting that the ensemble she chose made me a good deal warmer than it could have made her.

On the plane, Nicky kept asking me about everything; my past, the Lakers, the Knicks, my marriage, everything. At one point she put her hand on my knee and her mouth told me that she wanted me to know that she had my best interests in mind, while the rest of her told me she also had my worst interests in mind. I told her she seemed like a nice kid, but that I was going to be making the decisions on this trip. I’ve got six rings, but the only one I could lose would be in serious jeopardy if Nicky got what she wanted out of me at 30,000 feet, in between the mini-bar and the film room. Not that I thought about it or anything. I used to only trust women as far as I could throw ‘em, but after my second kid I decided to stop performing that particular test. Now I don’t trust anything with an A-cup, up to and including Shaq.

We set down in Omaha. Not my kind of town, but I could deal with that. When the tournament rolls around, everything’s such a corporate dog-and-pony show that there’s not too much of a difference. It was, after all, the NCAA tourney. I remembered playing in it when I was a kid, running off screens and playing defense for ol’ Coach Rupp. Of course, Hollywood would have you believe that Coach Rupp took our defensive sets out of The Triumph of The Will. Of course, I picked up a USA Today when I took my seat, and read articles about “The Ultimate Hard Worker” Tyler Hansborough, “The Consummate Teammate” David Padgett, and “The Humble and Polished Student of the Game who dominates not through talent but through intelligence and skill” Kevin Love. Coincidentally, they’re all white. The more things change… Anyways, I wasn’t there to ponder whether or not T.I. would play the role of Mario Chalmers 15 years from now. I was there to find out about Mike Beasley, and just what this kid's "character issues" entailed, the old-fashioned way. I found an old colleague of mine in the stands who knew these kinds of things.

“Hey, Bob, I like this Beasley kid. Acts like the ball is the orb from Sleeper but can flat-out score the rock and pull down boards. Only thing is that I hear he’s got some skeletons in the closet. What can you tell me?”

I brought up Sleeper because I knew Bob was one of the few guys still in basketball who knew Woody as the guy who’d beat Star Wars for an academy award and wrote Side Effects and With Feathers, not as the guy who married his daughter and still got seats almost as good as the guy who made She Hate Me and those commercials for sneakers that cost almost as much as my loafers. I've always had a bit of a weakness for spending money on clothes, but when I buy my shoes, I'm trying to pick out the ones that make women go lower, not me go higher.

“Riles, cat went to six high schools. Dude’s got skeletons in his foyer. You ask me, I wouldn’t take a guy with an attitude like that on my team.”

“Yeah, I know exactly what kind of a guy you want on your team. I saw your reality show, Bob. How does it feel going from Dean Smith to a poor man’s Flava Flav?”

“Straight to sabers, eh, Riles? Y’all might want to pick up a win soon, 13’s an unlucky number to finish up with. Not because it’s cursed or anything, because it means your team’s a Goddamn insult to the sport of basketball.”

“Tell me, Bob, has studying under Digger Phelps improved your knowledge of the game?”

Bob broke out into a wide smile then, and I kindly offered him a red as a token of good will. We both walked out of the stadium to enjoy our cigarettes then, silently marveling at how much things had changed; 40 years ago, Red Auerbach lit up a victory cigar on the sidelines as his team strolled to its 9^th championship. Now the best coach of the modern era, as I’ve been known to say when my modesty and sobriety have departed me, and the all-time leader in college wins had to act like 17-year old kids failing out of boarding school to have a smoke. Actually, scratch that. The coach of the worst team in professional basketball and a guy who wished he could get Erin Andrews' face time had to sneak out like kids flunking out of boarding school for a smoke.

“Seriously, tell me about this Beasley kid.”

“Nobody knows too much about him. Worst story we know is about him marking up the principal’s car back at The Factory.”

Shit, Oak Hill Academy. Back when I was in high school I saw exactly two notable persons: Big Lew and my home ec teacher. This kid had played with Ty Lawson, Brandon Jennings, Bill Walker, and even that kid Kevin Durant, who by those advanced stats was the next Wilt and to hear Jay Bilas talk showed elements Pete’s handle, Iverson’s first step, Drazen’s jumper, Pippen’s perimeter D, Kareem’s touch from the post, Shaq’s power, McHale’s moves, Jordan’s driving ability, ‘Niques finishing, Magic’s court vision and West’s savvy every time he took a 15-footer. I didn’t need any statistical models to tell me that the kid needed a cheesesteak before he’d be within spitting distance of Jamaal Crawford, let alone any of those other guys.

“Well, that’s the reason he left one school. That leaves us only four short.”

“That’s all I can tell you, Riles. You want to know more, you gotta find someone who knows.”

“Always fun to see you, Bob. There aren’t enough guys like us in the league anymore. What was the final straw for you?”

“Probably when Floyd pulled DeRozan by giving ‘Lil Romeo a scholarship for the pure hell of it. I’m all for pulling out the stops to get blue-chippers, but you gotta draw the line somewhere. And mind you, last year Tim had a kid who recruited himself. If I want a 7-footer with a left hook, do I have to give ‘Lil Mama my backup shooting guard’s scholarship?”

“I think it’s just Romeo now.”

“Way I see it, taking the ‘lil off your name is like Bill Walton trying to re-invent himself as an ‘avid reader’-you can act like William H. Buckley all you like, you’re still the dead-head who went on a hippie rebellion against Wooden and pushed his coach to allow him to use performance-diminishing drugs.”

“Those were the good times, Bob. On the bright side, we now have a legitimate hip-hop artist who goes by the name ‘Bow Wow.’ Shit is music’s answer to the Utah Jazz.”

“I really don’t care. Digger’s calling me over. If anyone sees these tapes 15 years from now, say the mob made me do it.”

I asked around about the kid all day, to varying degrees of nonresponse. I was getting frustrated; was the kid just not into social studies, or was he doing for his coaches what Peter Sellers did for his wives?

The kid was out after a quick roll over that Mayo kid in the first round, the one who was supposed to be the next Pistol Pete and who had pretty much made it clear the only way he was staying in college another year was if they found dogs in his basement. But after a second-round exit, it got even tougher to find any solid leads on the kid, until I saw a kid with a limp who saw my face and jumped clean over a chain-link fence to avoid me. I threw a ball into his hands, which made him stand dead still until I was able to catch up to him.

“Bill Walker.”

“What’s it to you, bitch?”

“That’s Mr. Riley to you. Back when I was a kid, we respected those who came before us.”

“Last I checked, your generation stuck those who came before you on reservations and gave ‘em casinos.”

“If I wanted smart mouth on this trip I’d have shared a room service order with Nicky and gotten the 25-dollar movie. What can you tell me about Beasley?”

“I don’t know the cat. He shows up, goes to practice, leaves. He shares details about his life about as often as he hits the cutter.”

I put my knee into the one of his with the type of crap going on inside of it that turned Elgin from being the good kind of unstoppable to the kind of unstoppable that gives Yaroslav Korolev 8 figures, only nowadays they had better ideas for fixing a busted knee then switching Elgin to the more nutritious Camel Lights. Mine probably hurt more, but I had the benefit of not giving a crap.

“Whaddya say, Billy? I’m ten seconds away from putting another one into your knee, telling Chad Ford you’ve got a stubby wingspan, and telling Clay you’d be a steal in the second round.”

“Okay, okay. There’s a guy. Beasley talks to him after practice every day. Calls himself Manny C. Nobody knows his real name, but give me your number and I’ll have him call you.”

“If I don’t get that call, rest assured, you’re going to be balling with Lenny Cooke and James White next year.”

Sure enough, I got the call that very night. It was a deep voice, not one I recognized. It just said to show up at the parking garage at 2:00 in the morning, and to make sure I wasn’t followed. One of my few positive traits is to know when I shouldn’t let my own inhibitions mess up a good thing. I gave Magic the ball, I let Patrick get shots up and women down, and I wasn’t about to do anything other than what this guy told me. It probably wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, but when you get to be my age you’ve got assurance that any idea you have won’t be the worst one you’ve ever had either. When I showed up, a tall guy with a hood on and a trail of smoke finding its way between whatever smoke detectors were in the building like Reggie coming off screens back in the day when lighting up the Mecca meant something other than Miley Cyrus coming to town.

I walked over to the van, and felt a crack to the back of the head the likes of which I hadn’t felt since I played football for the U, back when everyone didn’t act like KU was playing keep-away with a Faberge egg just because they let one of their basketball players do something other than practice pull-up jumpers and screw when I wasn’t busy playing ball. I didn't think of that at the time, because sudden and extreme physical pain rarely induces nostalgia.

I awoke to a pair of legs that ruled Hell out of the equation fairly quickly. My head drew up to find a dark skirt attached to what could truly and honestly be called a glower. That ruled out two of the three possibilities. I was still alive. Unfortunately, the other information I was processing kept me from being able to definitely see that as a “glass half-full” type of situation.

“Well, Nicky, of all the ways this could’ve shaken out, I sure as hell didn’t think I’d end up on my back before you.”

“Shut up, Pat. You’re going to listen now. You’re going to stop digging around Beasley. As far as you know, the kid enjoys to listen to Crime Mob with the volume at 14 and that’s all there is to it. We’ve got the thing set up, all the way to Stern. We’re getting Beasley. He’s the next big thing, and he’s coming to Miami with the kid and setting up a rivalry with King James. Mayo’s going to New York and he’s either going to extinguish or fan the flames of Isaiah. At this point, the big man doesn’t really care either way. Rose is feeding the skinny kid for the next decade. We appreciate all you’ve done, Riles, but at this point you’re really and truly an expendable resource. I don’t know if you’ve picked up a paper lately, but Doc Rivers is going to be coach of the year and Avery Johnson is looking into subletting options. Your luck can change just that fast in this league. In fact, you’re a 63 year old man with La Brea in your lungs. I don’t think anybody would be too shocked if you had a heart attack in your hotel room this weekend.”

“Nicky, I don’t play with Jerry West anymore, but I think I can tell when I’m dead, and seeing as to how you’re neither fully clothed or Stan Van Gundy, I don’t think I’m in the afterlife right now. And I know the big man-if he wanted me dead, I’d be on the sidelines in the sky. So I gotta think there’s a variable here you’re neglecting to mention, hopefully one influenced by my tan. What I’m saying here is that if I’m to go Rockefeller this weekend, I’d at least like the full experience.”

As I said all this, I’d closed the distance between us. A few seconds after I’d finished, the only laws either of us were breaking were biblical. I’d already broken most of my rules this week, so what was one more? And if you’re going to make a mistake, you might as well make one that involves enveloping. I wouldn’t have called what happened that night a good idea by any stretch of the imagination. But as bad ideas go, I had a lot more fun with this one than I did with Earl Barron.

I’ve always considered myself a fairly fortunate guy, and Nicky being a heavy sleeper after intense physical activity fit right in with being the 12^th man with West and Baylor and taking The Kid being rated somewhere in between Darko Milicic and Chris Kaman. I had a cigarette, for tradition’s sake, and also because I'm addicted to them, and left one for Nicky. Then I put on my coat, grabbed my notebook, and went to see Memphis play against Kansas. There were no guards. The door wasn't even locked. Hell, I'd probably been checked out. That's what you've gotta love about Dames-the less you trust 'em, the more you end up getting out of 'em. I made a note to mention that to Stern. I walked unimpeded into the sunlight, got in a cab, and told the driver to take me to the airport, I was going to Manhattan, and not the goddamn Manhattan where Beasley played. I was going back to my town to pay the big man a visit. Somebody had messed with the wrong guy. The only thing left to find out was who.