I Too Can Point

Periodically, I will do this, and hope you find it helpful:

-The Works keeps workin', or puttin' it work, or makin' it work. Today, understanding Bosh and hating on this Denver defeatism. Yesterday: FIBA-as-lab, HOF induction speech Power Rankings.

-My review of the Hall of Fame.

-Indie rock and sports for Deadspin. Have already received disciplinary action for leaving off Yo La Tengo and Pollard.

We All Mourn in the Right Way

Bethlehem Shoals: The dreads are gone. But does the spirit live on?

Eric Freeman: I was under the impression that it was a Samson-type deal, in that they serve as his armor from the divine.

BS: I know Luke Ridnour needs the Armor of God to take the court. But is training the Nuggets really that much of a risk to his person? Does JR Smith throw weights around for fun?

EF: I would not be surprised. It's a team of thugs!

Tom Ziller: I think he cut them because he had trouble fitting them in his tanning bed. Or that his tanning bed was cooking them too much. Burning hair smells terrible

EF: Is there not a hole on top for long hair? Tanning bed engineers need to think about their product a little more.

TZ: There is something about the Nuggets that makes cutting off long/longish hair cool. Or Maybe this is a commentary on the death of the Nuggets as stylish. Birdman jumped the style shark, Melo went mainstream ...

EF: Has Billups ever had hair? I don't think he even did in college.

BS: He was born bald. He has eyebrows, though.

TZ: I've never seen Billups with hair

EF: He did! Maybe people made fun of his squiggle and he stopped.



TZ: He looks like Penny when he has hair.

BS: Do you think he had to get them as part of being the Nuggets trainer? Like reverse dress code?

TZ: That'd be great. But what does Al Harrington have to do? Billups can get away with the baldness due to respect and prestige.

BS: I never liked the nickname "Baby Al". He always looked 58 to me.

EF: He kinda looks like what I wanted to see at the end of Benjamin Button: a giant baby.

BS: A world-weary baby? I think that's what I mean?

EF: I would expect a giant baby to be world-weary.

BS: Not if it were brand new.

TZ: Yao weighed like 13 pounds at birth. That's almost a bag of cat litter. Wait, maybe Hess is trying to catch on with the Heat.

EF: Isn't that team basically going to strength-coach itself? Or is the strength coach only going to work with Dexter Pittman?

TZ: That's why he wants a job there. He can relax

BS: That's all it takes to audition for Miami? A tan and sensible hair?

TZ: Shavlik Randolph got a contract, didn't he? He has the most backwards name in the NBA.

EF: I think he took his mother's maiden name as his first name.

TZ: From Hess' official bio: "Hess lives to obtain peak performance in his own life." Maybe he bought a convertible and the dreads were creating too much drag.

BS: They are pretty inefficient in general, from a performance standpoint. But not from a maintenance one.

EF: That's why David Lee doesn't have them.

BS: We should make a program where you can give any NBA player a Hess makeover. Like Steph Curry.

TZ: Who needs it most?

BS: Do they get the supernatural powers? Wait. What if all the hair experiments on the Nuggets were part of Hess's "peak performance" regimen? Not any form of cultural expresison.

TZ: Good call. That would explain the abnormally high hair turnover.

BS: It's like that Pistons guy and his water molecules. Follicles and molecules almost rhyme.

FIN

He Will Take You Away

If the following video doesn't hit you on a number of levels, be dead and be gone from my sight:



Meanwhile, keepin' up with the future:

-Language and coverage of Gil. You know you love it.

-Eric Freeman coins the term "reverse-tanking," which I predict gets big.

There are some guest posts in the works, but for now, reacquaint yourself with my new home. And watch that video over and over again.

The Meal of the Wicked

March 10, 1976: Colonel at Spurs, Gilmore and Gervin, through my brain right now.

The only good thing about having a fever for days is that after a point, you stop being exhausted and end up floating and all creative-like. I have so many things to add to the book today, and also wrote a 1200 word opus on why, indeed, small forwards matter for The Baseline. It could've easily appeared here, but it happened there. Check it out.

Also, don't forget to check out the last days of the Bill Simmons Book Club. The heat hath really been brought in the second round, and I kind of wish we could drop Simmons and just form a basketball-and-culture blog with this roster of writers. I know, keep dreaming.

Still Waters Run Shallow

A profound believer in liberated fandom, djturtleface loves the worst or most peculiar teams in the league. In third grade he listed Rasheed Wallace as his idol, and currently writes for TheGoodPoint.com. He just started SB Nation's Memphis Grizzlies blog Straight Outta Vancouver, which is an exercise in pain, misfortune, and hope for a better tomorrow.

Trevor hates sports more than, perhaps, anything else. In fact Trevor’s has irrational hate for everything that doesn’t pique his interest is the only thing that keeps me from definitively saying sports are the main target of his loathing. You see Trevor prefers to spend his days as an active citizen, devouring monographic texts on the complexities of nuclear deterrence theory. He fancies himself a thinker, an intellectual even, and resents that others are more interested in half-heartedly watching a second episode of Sportscenter instead of making sure to catch this week’s U.S.-Chinese Strategic Economic Dialogue on CSPAN.

So needless to say I was skeptical when Trevor sent me an article he described as “probably about basketball, you like that, don’t you?” I damn near closed the tab when I saw a goofy white dude with thick rimmed glasses and a weak ass ‘fro staring back at me, until I read the subtitle: “When underdogs break the rules.” Intriguing. Except horrible.

When I talked to Trevor later that day I told him how I thought the article was fucking stupid. I straight up murdered that shit. Guess what pal? No fourteen year old team is really all that talented, so it’s not like the metaphorical glass ceiling was too high for up and coming team to break shatter. Not to take anything away from the sport, but my high school’s girls team once scored under 20 points in a game—scratch that, a win.

Trevor, possessing a biting wit, responded, “Didn’t you just write like a page long feature about how bad-ass some team was cause they were so odd?” Oops, there goes gravity.



The team in question was the Golden State Warriors. And the short piece theorized that if we remember sports are ultimately an exchange of entertainment for pay, wherein wins and losses are just one function of entertainment, then the W’s are actually one of the most successful teams in the league. Their games are thrilling, they give 48 minutes of excitement, and the constant tension between Nellie and his riotous players fosters a compelling and dramatic narrative. While the team might not be win many games, both the Golden State Warriors and their fans are certainly winners.

But every time we boot up ESPN, watch Sir Charles rant on Inside the NBA, or listen to the B.S. Report we are reminded that championships and wins are the measure of the quality of sport. On top of that brainwashing we’re reminded that only certain types of teams win championships—teams that are about as unique as Simmons’ punch lines.

As a result of this propaganda most fans perceive unique teams like the Warriors as gadgets or tricksters, somehow perennially inferior to the real contenders. The Magic can’t win in a series—live by the three die by the three, bad luck will eventually hit. And my, oh my, look at that Rafer Alston’s street ball moves, aren’t they a neat distraction! The Nuggets don’t have any chance—up-tempo teams just don’t play enough defense to win big games. By the way, friends, please note that J.R. Smith has no basketball awareness. It must be because those tattoos cover his eyes too!



Of course in reality the curse of the three-pointer is a myth carried over from the NCAA’s one-and-done tournament format and streaky shooters. The Magic shot the three more consistently than any other team deep in the playoffs, which makes sense considering that the greater the sample the more likely you are to find the mean. As far as fast pace equaling a lack of defense, Denver was 6th in the league in defensive efficiency despite missing Kenyon Martin for much of the season, much better than even moribund grinders like the Spurs and Trailblazers. Anyone who watched the Denver’s playoff losses recognized they lost due to late game offensive blunders, not defense.

Considering how few teams played with a style asymmetrical to league trends last season, I count 8 (Knicks, 76ers, Magic, Pacers, Rockets [without Yao], Nuggets, Warriors, Suns), isn’t it modestly impressive that half made the playoffs, none were embarrassed, and two made the Conference Finals? If you play the percentages, teams who employ unique strategies to maximize their advantages actually tend to be competitors more often. Now remember that the Suns would probably still be in the Conference Finals picture too if it weren’t for their owner’s shameful identity crisis.

Perhaps it was fate that the Suns would be betrayed by their owner, since the only thing that had ever kept them from winning multiple champions was catching a couple breaks. Or, rather, they caught too many breaks. Joe Johnson broke his face, Amar’e broke his knees, Amar’e and Diaw broke the rules, and Nash broke his nose. But Steve Nash standing back up, defiant with his face bloodied, will be my image of a winner’s spirit forever. The pained determination in his eyes was enough to make you wonder if he had asked God why he had forsaken him. And yet since we all should be preaching “defense wins championships” so kids will learn to be winners for life at elementary school basketball camps, the story books will remember Nash and the seven-seconds-till-death Suns as nothing but an entertaining sideshow to the Spurs dynasty.



Yes, the haters are right that none of these eight teams have won a championship lately, and they’re right that recently the ranks on Larry O’Brien’s trophy are devoid of a team with a unique, non-traditional style. But consider the three greatest dynasties in the NBA’s history: the Bill Russell Celtics, the Showtime Lakers, and the Jordan Bulls. Believe it or not, Russel’s Celtics thrived off fast-breaks at a time when clothes-lining a streaking wing was considered a defensive fundamental. The Showtime Lakers overcame having stars named Ferdinand and Earvin to become flashy to a fault at times, they admittedly made no effort on defense, and the guy named Earvin could and would play all five positions. Of the three only the Jordan Bulls even vaguely resembles what we now know as the prototypical blueprint for success, whatever the fuck that even means, and that’s likely only because Jordan’s dominance shaped the model in our collective minds.

A week or two ago I was chatting with Trevor and we stumbled into a breezy conversation about Third World development and dependency theory. To explain my point I dropped a little round ball reference: the Lakers want the Kings to try to build around Kevin Martin like he’s Kobe, because they know the Kings will never grow into contenders that way. They want the Grizzlies’ young core to fail because they can rape their greatest resources for a pittance in return. And the fans are strung along the whole way, struggling to subsist while waiting for that true shooting guard or seven foot shot-blocking center they just know is the final piece.

I was pretty proud of the metaphor, and thought I might have smartly, meaningfully bridged the gap between disciplines.

But Trevor just told me it was fucking stupid.

Secrets Revealed

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

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

Write with Your Feelings

Below is an exercise in conjecture about Andrew Bynum. As you consider it, please also remember to check out The Baseline, where Shoals has been going in all day, every day. Today should be especially good, as Mr. Bethlehem uses his commodious TSN space to write two columns.

Most likely, few people anticipated that the Game would emerge as such a committed NBA observer when he dedicated his career to the lowest-common-denominator rap in which 50 Cent traffics. And yet, it's undeniable. There are so many examples. A few years ago, on "Beautiful Life," Mr. Taylor spit, "Fo'-dot-six Range/Ben Gordon dip game/That's bullshit/I never been to a Knicks game/Or sat inside of Ms. Chang's/But I watched Tim Duncan in the Olympics go for 45 against Spain." Last year, on "Red Magic," it was: "I'm in L.A. Gasol-in'/But when I'm in New Orleans/You can call it Chris Paul-in'." On "My Life" with Lil' Wayne: "Got a Chris Paul mind state/So I'm never outta bounds." And later, on "Baggage Claim," he again name checked Chris Paul (he is always rapping about CP3) before looking to both the past and future in prophetically asking, "What up, Bynum/How's that playoff knee?/Next timeout/Tell Kobe run the play off me."

So, indeed, Bynum, what up with that playoff knee? Well, so far the results have been mixed. But if Sunday was a game about Andrew performing as he can, and as he has when not impeded by those precarious appendages of his, tonight is perhaps a game about whether or not it's even a relevant inquiry. Tonight we find out not if Bynum matters, but if he knows that he is supposed to matter.



The Game (the rapper, not the sports competition) may not be an NBA thought leader. In fact, it's good that he isn't--in some ways, he is a perfect barometer for what matters to the everyday fan. You usually don't get rapped about if you're a nobody. Nobodies especially don't get rapped about by the Game, an MC so hypersensitive about how he is perceived and so self-conscious about his references that you sometimes pity his therapist while also assuming that you and he would find ample common ground. That he would include a reference to a player who has accomplished little and is best known for summoning Kobe's parking-lot ire stands as testament to just how much is expected of Andrew Bynum. Andrew is supposed to matter.

The trope permeating media since Sunday has been that Andrew Bynum is a key to the Lakers' championship run. If he plays like he did in Game Seven against the Rockets... is the condition upon which the NBA appears to now hinge. It's reasoning with roots in Denver's impressive playoff performance, Denver's imposing front line, and the memory of L.A.'s feeble stand against the Celtics in the 2008 Finals. Similarly, Bynum-as-dispositive-element is presented in the framework of which things must occur to allow for the Lakers' success as a team. Lost amidst these analyses, though, is what the Denver series means for Andrew Bynum, not what Andrew Bynum means for the Lakers. If J.J. Abrams were to direct Andrew Bynum's life, tonight would likely be some kind of wormhole in the space-time continuum through which the future could be seen and at which Andrew's present self and future self would converge to determine who would be the real Bynum.

Ignoring its implications for the greater Los Angeles team, Denver is a unique challenge for Bynum because the Nuggets' front court is a litmus test for NBA significance. To this point, Andrew's knee has mattered to the Game because that knee is considered to be the reason why an NBA star has not yet been born in full. Weighed down by the yoke of his much-touted potential, Bynum has titillated his audience with improvement and flashes of dominance when not injured. One could maybe argue that Andrew, in some ways, is perhaps a better version of Dwight Howard, as the former has obvious room to grow and already possesses a broader range of skills. And yet, because of the injuries, and because he has been learning the NBA, Bynum as we know him is not the Bynum for which we hope. In that respect, we'd like him to be more like Dwight, whom we've already seen flourish (albeit with some obvious cause for concern). Now, finally, we get to find out if that injury, that playoff knee, was worth wasting bars about.



Most young players, with few but awesome exceptions, need three or four years to understand the NBA. They need to explore their abilities in the new landscape, they need to identify who they will be, they need to get used to running into the Charles Oakleys and Tractor Traylors of the world (just ask Danny G). To be blunt, they need to learn how to play against grown-ass men. Andrew Bynum needs to figure out if he can play with grown-ass men on a regular basis, and Denver has them. Luis Scola is a solid NBA player, but when you're being called "That Louis Guy" on PTI, you probably have not yet arrived. And in a post-Yao world where Chuck Hayes and Carl Landry are the Tiny Town Twin Towers, you haven't necessarily been prepared for up to seven games with Nene, Kenyon Martin, and Chris Andersen. More importantly, you haven't yet been tested in a fashion that directly imperils or validates your destiny. (That's a real J.J. Abrams sentence, isn't it? How can destiny be changed? If it could, would it really be destiny? This is where the LOST logo would flash across the screen.)

Andrew Bynum will help us understand tonight if that playoff knee matters, and if he's going to realize the meaningfulness which has been taken as an article of faith, as something to which he is entitled. Nene's girth and persistence will challenge him. Martin's nimbleness and ferocity will challenge him. Andersen's hops and energy will challenge him. Andrew will not be able to escape any of it. A hallmark of this Denver team, particularly in the playoffs, has been the gathering intensity that seems to hang over the court each time the Nuggets walk onto it, this building, palpable tension which ultimately is unleashed in almost feral fashion, with a Denver opponent overwhelmed by the onslaught. Bynum will have to find a way to sustain his energy and his focus as this comes bearing down. Failing that, he will have to decide if he both understands and is willing to undertake that which is required to consistently perform at the heightened level of execution demanded by the playoffs and the attendant greatness which they extract. Win or lose the series, will Bynum emerge chastened and diminished or challenged and hungry? Will he understand why it needs to be the latter? Among the hardest transitions required by the NBA is that from player who can contribute to player who regularly does. It's a process which cannot be accomplished in one evening, but tonight will offer a glimpse into how Andrew will navigate this specific sort of turmoil.



In The Dark Knight, Bruce Wayne lamented that having ventured out into Gotham's festering crime, he returned keenly aware of what he would have to do, and become, to properly fulfill his destiny as the city's savior. Only, he wasn't sure if he was willing or able to undertake that process of growth. Tonight, Andrew Bynum will wander out into a darkened Gotham. It remains to be seen if he'll come back ready to take on all that's required for success, and if he'll know that he's supposed to. If he does, then we can expect more Game verses about him in the future. If not, should he ultimately just be some balky knees and frustrated shakes of the head, Game will have to find someone else to rap about.

They Will Take You There (Podcast!)

You asked for more Nuggets, and dang, are you gonna get it. This week's episode of FreeDarko Presents the Disciples of Clyde NBA Podcast is devoted largely to a "why not us" take on Denver, as well as an examination of George Karl's hidden, at times self-defeating, genius. And a rare chance to hear the voice of one Brown Recluse, Esquire. I know, huh? Also, be sure you've read recent convert Joey's clear-eyed breakdown of their charms, and absorb the "live-blog" I did with Zac Crain for D Magazine. Yee-haw! Take that, Frank Deford!!!

The Podcast:



Song List:

"The Perfect Stranger" - Sneakers
"Insanity" - L Seven
"Irregular" - The Invisible
"Blackout" - Plagal Grind
"One Step Forward" - Max Romeo
"Strange Life" - Arabian Prince
"Dreams Never End" - New Order
"Keep The Dream Alive" - John Vanderslice

Remember, if you want to buy some of these, save our ship and go through Amazon. For other means of obtaining this program, try iTunes and the XML feed. Note: The XML feed won't be prepared until about 1EST, but I was too excited to hold back.

What Happened to That Boy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

Leave Home

Links of goodness today:

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

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

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

Podcast tomorrow!

Bony Tenders

Nothing much of note, just thought I'd check in.

I now write with the disclaimer that I may no longer know what the f I'm talking about. I've been in a post-Al Jefferson knee injury daze for the past few weeks, and then with the news that Amare is out for the postseason, I almost just gave up. Instead, I've been watching all of the games without the sound on, and I actually cannot understand what is going on. As soon as I started watching the games on mute, LeBron seemed like way more of the MVP than Kobe, the Spurs look outstanding, and I am now on the verge of liking Dwyane Wade,

Now Imagine my confusion when I was watching the Wolves game and they flashed the faces, four in a row, of Antawn Jamison, OJ Mayo, David Lee, and Emeka Okafor. What could those four possibly have in common? Turns out it was one of those promos for fans to buy tickets for the upcoming next four games at home: Washington, Memphis, New York, and Charlotte. Depressing for sure.




















Yes, enough has been made of the fact that Bynum's out, KG and a ton of Celtics are out, Al Jeff's out, Amare's out, Gilbert is still out, Iverson is teetering, T-Mac is out, most of the Bucks are out, Oden is out, and now Rudy Fernandez but let me make more out of it. We are entering into a swaggerless vortex that might extend into the postseason. Already, I don't want to see the Suns win it simply because it won't "count." Same goes for Rockets if T-Mac isn't there (yes, I know), and that goes double for Portland if Oden and/or Rudy aren't in the mix.

And if KG isn't at full speed, would a Cavaliers or Magic title count? And if the Spurs beat the Suns again, it certainly wouldn't have the same significance as it would if Amare was on the court. Remember those jokes about how the Rockets' mid-90s titles didn't count because Jordan "loaned" them the trophy? I'm starting to get that itchy feeling again.

Right now, the only teams I can fully get behind winning the whole thing is the Denver Nuggets and the NO Hornets (and on a good day, the Jazz). The Nuggets and Hornets aren't expected to beat anyone in the playoffs even an Amare-less Suns. They both have guys in Melo and CP3 who are more deserving of titles than anyone I can think of. Their teams are in tact. Their coaches' futures depend on their success this season. And they dunk a lot.

With a month left in the regular season, I thought I'd have more than that to cheer about. Please give me some other good news, if anyone cares to.

News, Fun, and Obstinance

This video is amazing. It's everything I'd want to ask Melo, plus a bizarre disclosure about what college team he favors—presumably in addition to Syracuse. I think.

Exciting developments on the still-glowing FD book front: In conjunction with Blazer's Edge, I'll be making a Portland appearance next month. All will be one at Burnside Powell's on 2/9 at 7:30, with further festivities to follow. More info here. Also, I'll be in Texas for a week in March. Any interest in an Austin or Dallas "reading"?

Earlier: A major post about everything and questions about our growing influence.

Finally, be prepared for some more ads popping up on the site in the near future. It will interfere with the design as little as possible and make my life easier.

An Unofficial Guide to Guides

This began as a post about how awesome I was for making a point of watching Cavs/Warriors, and the difficulty of figuring out what to view on any given night. Then I realized that it didn't take a genius to pick that game, so instead I'm going to write about what I learned from Monta Ellis. But first, a few words about the Nuggets.

I always thought that Melo was the force that somehow legitimated Iverson, and all the other miscreants on that squad. That might have been wishful thinking, or aiming too low.

Reader Dave F. recently asked me whether it's possible for a team to made more FD by a decidedly un-FD player, a more traditional guy who serves as the organizing principle. He mentioned Yao, and it's true, under Adelman Yao has at times shown himself capable of both taking part in a more complex offense and holding down the paint. The real test case, though, is Billups. We all know Chauncey used to be a hoot when on Minnesota, and isn't exactly the purest point in the galaxy. But his sense of economy and control do have a conservative streak to them; Nash, Paul, Rose, or Baron are more creative and unpredictable, even if they're closer to the positional archetype. In fact, you could that the ideal PG is supposed to introduce an element of instability to throw off opponents, while themselves maintaining a new-found grasp of this discovery. It's a dualism that explains why today, the league's premier playmakers often find themselves on fast, inventive team—and why all my favorite teams have, or badly need, such a player.



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

This isn't as simple as saying "Chauncey Billups runs the offense." He's the star in the middle of the solar system that holds everything else in its stable orbit. And here, we stumble into quite the equivocation, since by conventional measure, Melo is the "star" of that team, and Billups's predecessor, AI, certainly had more star power. But taken literally, the primary function of a star is to provide gravity, cohesion. That can be in the form of leadership, or the more concrete work of Billups I've described. I would say that Iverson was always a bigger star league-wide during his time on Denver than he was on his own team. This might be where stardom ceases to be frivolous, and begins to overlap with terms like "value," and the debates everyone's been having about what makes an All-Star. I think it goes without saying, though, that Billups seems more impressive in this capacity, harnessing the forces of darkness, than at any point in his storied Detroit career. Denver needs him to make sense, but he needs Denver to exhibit just compatible, and essential, he can be to a team.



That's because the Pistons were, depending on how you look at it, starless—big planets all floating in a row—or a team of minor stars who didn't care for stragglers. I'm not offering a critique of how Detroit played, more that attitude that earned them so much praise, and yet some always hankering to see them add an uber-component. For instance, as much as I loved this year's Warriors as a scraggly band of freedom fighters hanging out in Oakland and giving other teams nightmares whose ultimate result was mere annoyance, they were most definitely starless, even if Jackson, Crawford and Maggette are prone to the kind of play (and numbers) associated with taking charge and holding things together. I've always found it admirable that Jackson, despite being the captain and arguably that team's Shawn Marion (wholly original piece that dictates the overall structure, even as the PG shapes it from second-to-second), never seemed particularly interested in stardom. Say what you will about S-Jax, but the man is smart about basketball, right down to the way he balances the ethic that made him beloved as a Spur with the inner crazy encouraged by Nellie ball.

And so we finally arrive at Monta's return. That the first game of the year for a player with one good season under his belt, who might be the best player on one of the league's worst teams, seemed like an event should tell you something about Ellis. Well, adjust that for my personal biases, but certainly Ellis has the capacity to captivate and punctuate like no one else on the Warriors. Basketball-wise, Monta's just adding another scorer whose can handle the ball a little. He's not that much better than Crawford. But when he's on the floor with the Warriors, that team suddenly has a sense of purpose. He's not hands-on like Billups, nor is he as vocal as Jackson. And yet all of a sudden, the Warriors have an identity. They're no longer a subversive mess, as likely to undo themselves as to irritate others. They're that same rag-tag people's army, but with a charismatic punch that allows them to believe in themselves. It's a swag-laden way of leading by example. Call it the reverse Ewing theory—a team lacking inner logic for whom a seemingly pointless star is the only way to justify themselves. It's also the best possible explanation for why the Wizards need Arenas, and maybe why the Warriors pursued him this off-season.



Rather than write an actual conclusion—no way it needs to get any more abstract and high-flown—I'd like to say a few words about the Oklahoma City Thunder. I know that as a resident of Seattle, I should hate this team. Then again, I refuse to hate David Stern, who is far more to blame than, say, Kevin Durant. But along with Denver, LeBron with a healthy team, and presumably now Golden State, they're one of the only squads I can now reliably count on to be entertaining. Yes, Durant's maturation, Westbrook's crash-and-burn progress, and Jeff Green Jeff Green-ing his way to Jeff Green-ness are all rad. However, it's the packaging, the location, and the irrepressible obscurity around them that makes them so compelling. This is an NBA team that, for all intents and purposes, might as well not exist. They play in a city that matters only to the people who live there. Their uniforms are unrelentingly generic, like the plain white can, black type BEER they sell some places. The name of the team seems like a placeholder, unless you bother to acquaint yourself with life in Oklahoma. I kind of admire Clay Bennett for crafting such an utterly blank brand, so strong is his faith in OKC's appetite for NBA ball, plain and simple.

The more this team grows, the more all this seems mysterious, sneaky, or hermetic, rather than simply laughable. When I sleep, I dream of makng a shirt that puts Durant on the cover of Everybody Knows This is Nowhere, and I even think the music serves as a decent soundtrack. By contrast, Hawks/Bobcats were red carpet regulars. This team is living in caves, stockpiling arms, camping out on the Big Love compound. I don't know what their purpose is, but the bare bones image and total lack of exposure makes them seem so much more severe, even unsettling, than if they had a cartoon horse on their unis. Durant's good enough now to reclaim that "assassin" epithet; on this team, it's as haunting as it should be. They may practice an hour's drive from any number of campy militias, but mark my words, the Thunder will be the first NBA team to catch on with Waziristan hobbyists.

No One Will Perish at Night

Let's get all pale and reflective for an instant here about this weekend. Well actually, I just want to weigh in on the Sixers. Contrary to what some of you may believe, I have paid attention to them some during their little flare-up. For the first few minutes of today's game, I was shredding pure plant. That's how much fun it was. However, like everything I've seen of them this year, it's a ridiculously crude form of up-tempo that tells us more about the Eastern Conference than those men in red, white, gold, and black.

Ask the Recluse, my Thaddeus Young color don't bleed, which is part of why I'm so nonplussed by that win. You heard the announcers (sorry, I lost track): They made that Korver trade to play Young, and maybe even Carney. Shit was stylistic cleansing, plain and simple, and it worked. So why did he semi-vanish as soon as that opening assault faded?

The truly depressing answer, that everyone already knows by now: The Sixers won that game with Reggie Evans, Andre Miller's palsied slashes, and some good luck at the line. I guess that's baby steps playoff basketball, but is that why a team burns up the map and turns instead a pyrotechnic souffle? That, good people, is the movie where robots take over the state house, not the one with the aliens whose eyes secrete Rembrandts.



I look forward to Game Two, which hopefully brings more Thaddeus Young, for he is the J.R. Smith-like key to that team's identity. And without identity, what has one but toil in the shadow of the master, hoping to rise up only by tracing out imperfect fractions of his designs? So Sixers, you are not in Heaven. You have been dragged into Hell with the promise of nobility. Kindly flutter, flutter up, and bring fire to where it does not belong!

Sidenote: With all as my witness, I hereby acknowledge officially that Amir Johnson isn't going to save the Pistons. At least not this year. I guess this means I have to stop talking him up in polite media circles.

Part of what I love about the Playoffs is how quickly fortunes, or at least their appearances, changes from game to game. 1-0, that's momentum; 2-0, done deal. 2-1, back in it. 2-2, one team in collapse, and so on. My absent-minded ravings aside, it's either the perfect—or melodramatically imperfect—example of this effect. So the upset happened. Does anyone seriously think that the Sixers are the better team, especially after that underwhelming performance? Hopefully, not. However, what combination of numbers will it take to loosen that judgment? If they go up 2-1 once back home, do we jump to conclusions?



I think with Golden State, it was so easy. You could feel it in the air. And yet in any series, there that world-unto-itself quality, a new reality where virgin rules are set and relationships forged afresh, on totally self-contained terms. If this is the case, or at least part of it, it's hard to overestimate the ebb and flow of a series. It would be just as wrong to tune out the first three quarters of a game (playoff or otherwise), then pay close attention to the forth with only broad history in mind.

It's why the series will always be superior to the single-elimination, and why basketball's 48 minutes and 100 points will always excited me more than 2-0 in the 9th. Process counts for something, damn it; a playoff series is resolution through process, and any NBA game is a process that spits out a final product. Maybe I'm just not smart enough to appreciate tension, but this is why I'm all for this sport, in which rash conclusions are simultaneously buttressed and undermined by constant activity. Otherwise, we live in a universe where there is nothing, then something, then nothing again. That's not for me. GO SIXERS, be unto rightness.

SCROLL DOWN FOR SHIT THAT MAKES MORE SENSE

LIVE IT.

Skeets doesn't know this yet, but his live blog has, before it even started, motivated me to do one of my own. Of course, in FD-land that means I'll take notes, edit them heavily, and then post them an hour after the game's done. I wonder if Skeets knows that the greatest mitzvah is the one that goes undiscovered for several hours.

While I'm waiting for my cheesesteak to cool and sucking up my last cable news fumes of the day, let's talk about the scheduling of this game. Maybe I've said this before, maybe I haven't—I believe with all my heart that the East Coast is killing basketball. Late contests are hard to watch, especially if you're gainfully employed or a less-than-loony fan. Also, with the exception of the Lakers, Eastern teams are still more famous. So if shit basketball is what's at hand, and the Western teams are unseen and unknown, of course it would give the impression that the NBA blows.

Tonight's 5PM start is a present to the East, and a direct response to last year's Dallas/Golden State series. It changed the world, and no one saw it. They eventually heard about it, and might have tuned in for the last one or two. But by and large, America had no idea in advance, and it took a concerted effort for them to just watch the damn game. Come to think of it, they should have the Eastern Conference games later. Those are the ones that can't keep the casual viewer around. And only a die-hard homer cares about the Eastern Conference playoffs, anyway.

These notes will start once the game does.

-Question: Is this going to be one big, noisy, sleek game of chicken, or whatever the opposite of chicken is? I guess that would be "so much offense that it becomes passive and reflexive instead of aggressive"

-I don't think I've ever seen Marcus Camby with a man on him more than two feet from the basket. Ever.

-Monta has reached the point where you give him the ball on purpose for the tough shot.

-Seeing Kenyon Martin rage again is like finding out your favorite uncle got a haircut and quit drinking. Not because of the haircut, of course.

-Does anyone else remember that DIME article where Anthony Carter talks about earning money as a teen by playing on dealer-sponsored teams? Just makes you realize how utterly mundane shit like that must be around the league. Like everyone knew all along that Stephen Jackson was wearing gang colors. I guess in San Antonio, it might only have been Bowen who knew.

-I've got a new stat. It's what percentage of a possession is irreproducible, or at least unique and perfect like a snowflake. Like how much of it another team could ever/never hope to replicate. I'm assuming that, on the strength of Iverson alone, the Nuggets would lead the league.

-Watching J.R. Smith try and guard Baron Davis is so cute. Smith's so over-matched that he'd gone all textbook.

-Here, I'll say it one more time: The Warriors don't have the same swagger as last year. They're neither as reckless nor as gloriously imperfect. I blame it on Monta, who means they don't have to throw behind-the-back half-court alley-oops. A simpler way of saying that would be "Matt Barnes isn't on the floor as much."

-So far tonight Harlan and Collins have called J.R. "The Speed Merchant" and said "when he gets unraveled, look out!"

-Collins saying "the mood swings that are going to happen in this game" was kind of deep. For both of these teams, you get the sense that scoring (or not) and defending (or not) are a kind of personal momentum they can't really control. I'm not saying that they're monkeys governed only by emotions or something, but when they're "on", it's not just as clinical as "shooter finding his rhythm" or "having their opponent's number." Someone gets possessed, and it spreads. That's kind of how execution works here, or at least the preconditions it requires.

-I don't see how anyone could coach these teams without understanding that, which might explain why they have the coaches they do. And why I don't know if firing Karl makes sense, or exactly how you judge the job he's done. I want to say something about the inmates running the asylum here, but the whole thing's actually a rec actvity? Phil Jackson wishes he were this next level.

-That's probably too stark a distinction, but the Warriors and Nuggets are definitely at one extreme (paging Tom Ziller. . .) It's definitely consistent with Iverson's game, even if it makes Carmelo's whole master technician thing especially complicated.

-How about a sociological model: A popular revolution that starts overnight and keeps the old government around to balance the books? Not a bad idea, actually. Is that how the House and Senate were originally conceived of?

-Excuse me if this reads like a Baudrillard book about Nuggets/Warriors. I fucking hate that guy.

-Halftime. Time for some more MSNBC. I'll probably put this up sans pictures at the buzzer, and fill those in after 30 Rock. Typing on a couch is hell on my hands, so someone had better enjoy this.

-I'm boycotting the TNT studio crew. Barkley's funny, and does an excellent Tracy Morgan in the most recent T-Mobile ads, but being stubborn, knee-jerk and uninformed aren't exactly winning qualities. And they eat away at his whole "I'm outrageous and frank" cred.

-Welcome back. I'm man enough to admit that, in my mind, there's absolutely no difference between Chucky Atkins and Anthony Carter.

-If neither team can play defense, why are there so many bad shots flying up? It's not like these teams are incapable of ball movement.

-So I just tried asking Skeets, in flagrante de live blog, if Andre Miller really is the best oop-thrower in the league, because Collins won't shut up about it. He wouldn't answer.

-When Anthony makes a block like that, or suddenly blows past someone, I wonder if he doesn't practice some tantric, energy-conserving approach to athleticism.

-I'm not about to switch over to the Dallas/Utah game, but the box score makes it look like it's underwater, upside, and everyone's been chugging date rape drugs. Except for Dirk. Those thing all make him stronger.

-"Emotion and passion are two different things. Passion is unbridled joy that's kept under control" [sic]--Doug Collins. I don't remember what he said about emotion, but it was bad.

-That wasn't even cherry-picking on this last play by J.R. He was shuffling his feet right under the basket. Hadn't even thought about moving. If the game's moving fast enough, it's like it's not moving at all, right?

-I need to close this BDL blog, they're making me feel stupid.

-Wait, is this a third AVP movie? That's much more my comfort zone.

-Fuck it, I give up. I'm posting this and watching the rest of the game.

Zapruder of my Soul

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Powder Blue Isotope

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

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

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



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

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

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

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



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