You Will Be Slaughtered

Words from the janitor: Read the Works today, which includes one of the best things I've written on LeBron. For those of you who asked where the feed went, try here.

Neither Eric Freeman nor myself attended any media days. That doesn’t mean, however, that we aren’t NBA writers. Or really lazy, which might explain why we didn’t go the nearest team media day with our pants on fire and our hi-tops on. As luck would have it, we discovered -- thanks to none of our older, more distinguished colleagues -- that media day is a clearinghouse for laziness, an ode to it, a gigantic, seaweed-powered factory churning out bits of storyline for the benefit of writer laziness. The point of media day is to feed story idea to the, well, the media. And why not? It saves us work; the season is long; puff pieces make the world go ‘round; and really, is there any better explanation for the photos that came out of this week’s festivities.

Taking a scant bit of initiative, Eric and I have endeavored to get the jump on our more grizzled peers, read between lines, and lay claim to the stories that land someone -- maybe the player, maybe some scruffy reporter, maybe the two holding hands in a stockcar -- on ESPN in January, or maybe even as part of an ABC halftime segment. You see visual nonsense; we see messages telegraphed straight from the public relations office, just in code, a code of symbols and expressionistic cues that only a real journalist can latch onto and suck all the blood out of, drawing sustenance and meaning from it like a lamprey stuck in a picnic basket. Put me in coach, I’m ready to play!



As far back as he can remember, Daniel Orton had trouble in school. The day he started the third-grade, Daniel lit an apple on fire, thinking it was a pencil. All he wanted to do was give it to his teach, old, blind Ms. Abernathy, to try and make her see again. That way, maybe this year would be easier. He struggled through high school, just barely qualifying for admission into Kentucky, and it was rumored, left after one sliver of a season off the bench because he was facing ineligibility.

However, Eric Bledsoe’s bum transcripts aren’t the only academic shocker to come to light in the House of Cal’s this summer. As it turns out, Orton tested at near-genius levels on all four major standardized tests, and learned that all along, he has been the victim not of poor schools, or an undiagnosed learning issue, but poor record-keeping. Vets like Rashard Lewis, who jumped straight from high school, have taken to calling Orton “The Wiz”; this offseason, he has started aggressively pursuing a degree at UCF, with an emphasis on science, math, and his favorite topic, physics. That apple? No longer a painful memory, this unassuming fruit is now a reminder of Sir Isaac Newton, also misunderstood as a child and very nearly burned at the stake before an apple set him free. Just don’t ask his more religious teammates in on the conversation, Orton jokes. (BS)



For the first five seasons of his career, Monta Ellis was an enigma, a talented scorer who often seemed uninterested in the rigors of defense and being his team’s leader. Now, a married man and NBA veteran, he has taken up the mantle and led his charges out of the wilderness. But few thought he would do so as the leader of a dystopic future world hell-bent on fighting off a coming alien invasion. At the bridge of his spaceship, he waits, ready to take on any extraterrestrials that look to penetrate our atmosphere. (EF)



As a player, Nick Van Exel was not someone you would have expected to take on a coaching role after his days on the court were over. Despite his penchant for late-game heroics, Van Exel was a bristly personality who often seemed disconnected from his teammates. With the Hawks, his methods have been far from conventional. But he has a secret weapon and conversation starter: the first pants ever to combine pleats and belt-loops. (EF)



Don Nelson is gone; long live Don Nelson. At least, coming into camp, that was the fear for some in the Golden State Warriors organization. After all, no man is as synonymous with the francise as the one they call Nellie; his up-tempo, experimental brand of ball, and eccentric behavior, are the closest it has ever come to a league-wide brand. But as with the couple in Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage (including the clay-mation miniseries streamed on Welsh PPV), even the most passionate, rocky, relationships must come to an end. Coming into camp, though, new head coach Keith Smart wonder, and worried, how he could get his men to work past the charismatic rush -- and some would say, the beaten-puppy trauma -- of life under Nellie. What did their insides look like? How did they understand the sport of basketball? How, from chaos, can you start to mine order?

The answer was easy: stacking. This centuries-old sport, favorted primarily by autistic kids (and Dutch people) and their weird dads, consists of piling up objects, in a set form, at a rapid pace. The demons of Don Nelson are exorcised, and youngsters like Stephen Curry learn that fast doesn’t necessarily mean chaotic, and that you can build yourself -- and your team -- back up without a return to plodding basics. Maybe it’s a sport for the wee ones, but as Curry put it, Nellie made us feel like kids in a bad way. This is the first step of the long journey home, to safety and security -- both on the court and in their minds. (BS)



In the 1998 film Patch Adams, Robin Williams heals sick people through the power of laughter. Fighting against an impersonal health-care system that treats human beings like cogs in a money-making machine, he turns an arsenal of funny voices and a giant vat of spaghetti into the best treatment this side of the MRI machine. For years, NBA defense has been defined by a similarly cold and angry calculus. But don’t tell that to the Clippers, whose regular team-wide hug sessions have brought a new sense of togetherness and the most surprisingly effective defensive rotations in the league. (EF)



Amar’e Stoudemire’s commitment to Jewish culture turned out to be short-lived. Once he learned what observing Shabbat actually meant and tasted gefilte fish for the first time, he realized that the world he saw in Israel was far different from that of his new home of New York City, where insecurity triumphs over strength. Yet all hope is not lost as Amar’e explores the world outside our borders. Impressed by Marion Cotillard’s performance in Inception, he attacked the world of French cinema with uncommon vigor this fall. Now, with the help of teammate Ronny Turiaf, he’s learning that French culture goes far beyond baguettes and brie. C’est la vie, indeed! (EF)



In the offseason, most NBA player return to the place that they really call home. It may be a small town in Missippi or Vermont where they were born, or a posh suburb of Atlanta where they have settled with their families. Maybe it’s rented Gulfstream, circling the globe, with occasional stops in Asia for sneaker promotion. For Miami Heat center Zydrunas Ilguaskas, better known as Big Z, that place is the mouth of hell, where he lives in the transplanted ruins of Count Dracula’s forbidden castle. The brotherhood of basketball is an enlightened one. It’s been years since Charles Barkley called Angola’s players “spear chuckers”. That, and the grueling journey endured by many pros from the former Eastern Bloc, explains why there haven’t been nearly enough Dracula jokes in this so-called global renaissance. I say, so what? Dracula was a great movie. If they’re going to talk that way, they should be ready for some good-natured ribbing. If you can dish it out, take it. If my daughter was a vampire, like in Let Me In (great flick!), I would probably send her to those parts to get in touch with her roots. But for now, come on. Vampires are the enemy. They take our blood. Don’t they deserve a little grief?

None of this matters to Ilguaskas. He arrived in the NBA abruptly because he turned into a bat and flew over to America. His early career injuries are largely attributable to a lack of healthy teammates that he could eat. With the Cavs, he siphoned off of the nutrient-rich bloodstream of LeBron James, and it kept him upright and effective. That, as much as any desire for a ring or friendship with LBJ, is why he followed him to Miami. Back home in hell, though, none of this matters to Ilguaskas. He can’t change who he is, nor does expect his teammates, or fans, to ever understand. But he’s sick, as they say, of living in the darkness. Big Z is ready to come into the light, and set the record straight on who he his, his past, and how you balance a castle already in shambles on exact point where one dimension ends and another begins (for obvious reasons, he can’t go all the way yet). Actually, given Ilguaskas’s unique set of concerns, maybe he wants us to come into the dark with him, since he likely wouldn’t want to be caught out in the light. Good luck convincing this reporter to chase down that lead! (BS)



On the court, fans know Steve Nash as one of the greatest distributors of his generation. He creates passing angles out of thing air with the skill of a well-trained wizard. But there’s a darker side to Nash that people rarely see. The man who seems all too willing on the court is much more selfish behind closed doors. To get a taste of his true personality, just watch him at the team’s post-game spread. And don’t look away, because that fruit plate might vanish before your eyes. (EF)



Robin Lopez has never struck anyone as a serious guy. With his Sideshow-Bob hair and love of comic books, he sometimes resembles a rowdy sixth-grader more than an adult. But behind that goofy exterior lies the mind of a scholar who, lest we forget, opted to spend two years at Stanford rather than a more typical basketball power like UCLA or Arizona. With the help of his twin brother Brook, Robin has created one of the hottest apps on the smart phone market. The next time you’re able to access your favorite childhood cartoons to pass the time on your morning commute, thank Phoenix’s shot-blocking center. (EF)



“Us .... us .... us ... us ... us ... and them .... them ... them ... them ... them ... them/But after all, we’re all just ordinary men” -- Pink Floyd, “Dark Side of the Moon”

(BREAKING CHARACTER: How fucking dumb is it that every single post-Syd Barrett Floyd record is, on some level, about Barrett, an idealized and romanticized version of Syd that at once celebrates and laments his descent into madness and the brilliance it wreaked along the way. But those assholes kicked him out! Blech. Okay, back to reporting.)

Growing up, Devin Harris always knew he was different. He didn’t get in trouble. He got good grades. His friends on his AAU team, the Wisconsin Blasters, had cousins in jail, problems getting admitted into school, and always got stopped by the cops. Devin just didn’t get it. He loved his Packers, tried to be a good son and better boyfriend, and went to the school of his dreams. He lived with two female friends, prompting rumors that he was a pimp, queer, soft, a mama’s boy, or indecisive. Devin laughed it off easily because to him, it all seemed so distant. Above all else, though, Devin knows the value of giving back to the community.

When the Nets moved to Newark, that responsibility took on an entirely different tenor than it had when they played ... in a swamp, and ministered to alligators, rens, shopping malls, the memory of dead mobsters, and area schools with at least one black kid for the photo op. Newark, though, is a very different, a world Harris has never known. Teammate Terrence Williams compared it to Seattle’s “BD”, though he probably meant “CD”, where all the non-serial murders in Seattle occur even though, at this point, only four blocks of it aren’t gentrified. This season, Devin plans to finally cross that line, to discover that world that has seemed so close, yet so far away, throughout his charmed life as a star athlete. That is, unless he gets traded first. (BS)



The Orlando Magic once had a depth problem. With so many highly-paid players on the roster, it was often hard for Stan Van Gundy to find enough minutes to go around. Brandon Bass and several others who came (or came back) to Orlando expecting to be a contributor to a championship contender, languished on the bench. This team needed leadership badly, and it came from an unlikely source: swingman Mickael Pietrus. A man who once seemed like a replaceable role player is now an irreplaceable part of the Magic attack. With the guidance of this Frenchman, this team is finally making beautiful music together. (EF)



The Celtics always knew that signing Shaquille O’Neal would be a risk. With his outsized personality and need for attention, Shaq can often serve as The Big Distraction, particularly for a team that’s been all business for the past three seasons. He can contribute on the court, but it might not always be worth it. For proof, just look at the building rift between O’Neal and dimunitive guard Nate Robinson. The man who once made everyone laugh with his “Shrek and Donkey” nickname now sees his joke turf being invaded by one of the biggest pranksters in the NBA. This locker room may not be big enough for the both of them. (EF)



By now, you know Ben Wallace’s story. How he grew up on a tiny farm in an impoverished Southern state, where he passed him time building his muscles. He smashed things for work and play, and sometimes just to pass the time. He broke up old furniture for firewood, then smashed an old barn so his ten siblings could build a new living room set. The stories spread far and wide of the kid from the dirt road, whose mailbox came and went with the hounds, and his astounding muscle. When he first met Charles Oakley, it was because Oakley -- no stranger to big arms and outlandish boasts -- wanted to challenge this backwoods phenom to a lumberjack contest. He took one look at Wallace, sledgehammer in hand, and politely changed his tune. Oakley offered, instead, to make Ben into an NBA player.

It worked, but only because Ben kept hammering. He’s been hammering ever since. And now, as his career enters its twilight phase, Wallace is going back to his roots, the way we become more and more like babies as we age (no Benjamin Button), or start going to church the day we learn we’re going to die. Sheed had the championship belt, the perfect summation of what pro sports had made him, and vice-versa. Wallace, hanging on till the end like ol’ John Henry battling that steam machine, is bringing back the hammer like never before. Sometimes, you’ll see it in the locker room. Sometimes, by the bench. It’s not if Big Ben has a hammer, but when. Let’s just hope Ron Artest isn’t in the building. (BS)



The Heat’s Big Three earned their fair share of criticism this summer for the way they came together in Miami. Beyond that arrogance, though, was a need to be loved verging on the pathological. With that in mind, they’ve made a concerted effort to reach out to the community and show they know how to take a little criticism. That’s why they held the league’s first team roast last night, where everyone from superfan Jimmy Buffett to teammate Carlos Arroyo got their digs in at Miami’s most popular trio. Don’t miss the broadcast on ESPN next Sunday, because Mario Chalmers does a Chris Bosh impression that you have to see to believe. (EF)



Once upon a time, the Mavericks had amenities unrivaled by any other team in the NBA. Of course, that was before Mark Cuban lost all his money by giving it away on poorly conceived reality shows. These days, the scene in Dallas is quite grim. The franchise’s army of trainers has now been whittled down to one guy with a bottle of Tylenol and some tape. Personal DVD players have been replaced by a communal TV with no cable and a few bootleg Entourage DVDs. And the team’s personal chef? Well, Dirk Nowitzki tries to make spaetzle, but it just comes out as a doughy mush. (EF)

(NF note: I thought this was Dirk at an all-white party with a bottle of Hypno until I zoomed in. What a story that would have made!)



You might think that Carlos Boozer -- born and raised in Alaska, then sent to preppy Duke to ball -- would lean to the right politically. He went to play in Utah, after all. However, now that he’s in the free and open environs of Chicago, we’re getting to see real Carlos Boozer, a arch political satirist who, in one image, shrewdly suggests the cultural intersection of the Tea Party and the Village People. Who better to tackle these topics than Alaska’s fifth-most famous public figure, and a power forward often accused of being “soft”? TROPES FOR DAYS. (BS)



Mike Dunleavy has been ridiculed for many things, among them, looking like he was twelve. That’s why, for the last few months, he has been living in a strange, reverse-biodome, that sucks the life out of its victim and causes him to age faster than usual, at least on a superficial level. Hence the new set of wrinkles, which give him some gravitas in a way that muscles never did, and a look of perpetual horror that no longer suggests an unspoilt childhood growing up with an NBA journeyman. You can judge a black vet by his tats. For the white race, all they have is the stories their faces tell. (BS)



BREAKING: Anthony Randolph straddles scorer’s table to down a box of NERDS between interviews. What flavor? (BS)

Hide Ya Face

If you've not yet done so, please read Shoals's nearly perfect articulation of Ron Artest. As I think about the piece, I like it even more for having been posted during the nation's birthday weekend. Seems like a subtle, even if unintended, ribbing for all of Ron's self-righteous detractors. He enjoys freedom and opportunity in this land, too.

Also, please check the latest recommendations posted in the Amazon widget along the right side of this page. Clicking through means good things for FD, for the products endorsed, for Amazon, and for your karma. Just clicking through before buying something else is helpful. The karma bit's been verified by science, by the way.

If ever there were a summer made for Rasheed Wallace, this is the one. The draft yielded few sure vessels of transformation, and free agency has mostly offered existing contenders new resources for strengthening their positions. (Unless folks are expecting exuberant Turkish people to help push Toronto to the top of the Eastern Conference.) Should it actually arrive, enabled by The 2010 Free Agent Class and a coming draft haul expected to greatly exceed that from last month, the much-discussed New League Order remains at least a year away. For the time being, teams with stars, systems, and identities all firmly established are jostling to find the element that will deliver a championship. Rasheed Wallace is playing with house money as these squads gamble.



We already know that history is likely to speak ill of Roscoe. It will harp upon his volatility. It will almost jeer as it calls him an underachiever. And it surely will subsume his contribution to Detroit's recent championship, bundling it with "however" and "if only" while emphasizing the technicals and the meltdowns. Rasheed will go out as grousing, mercurial, unreliable. His enormous talents will only damn him, as the critics, whose voices appear to ring loudest, cite his gifts as evidence of the disappointment he's authored. We need not even wait for validation; already, the historic Portland collapse from 2000 is an iconic moment for all the wrong reasons. A family man, a concerned member of his communities, a thoughtful fellow--makes no difference. Rasheed is nonetheless cast as the embodiment of failure, a source of the Jail Blazer malignancy and a paradigm of the problematic NBA player.

Rasheed's story would be different had he won more, or, in the alternative, had he been a lesser talent. Fair or not, he has been crushed by falling bricks from the crumbling foundation laid by expectation. The popular story of Roscoe never cares to take up trifling details such as his natural deference, or his preference for serving as an equal and not a star. Our sports culture so thoroughly disdains "wasting" talent that Rasheed Wallace's career is almost wholly anathema. People see his gorgeous jump shot, his facility near the basket, his technical proficiency and deride him as disinterested, insincere, or straight up idiotic. They observe that he's among the most gifted on-ball post defenders in memory, or they recognize his basketball intelligence, and they seethe that he's not nearly effective enough. For years, Wallace was supposed to mature into a leading man on par with players who share his physical prowess. Players like Timothy D and Kevin. Yet, he didn't, and the convention that reviles Wallace never allowed for a reconciliation of Roscoe's game and the ways we watch basketball. So Rasheed has enjoyed most-hated-on status.

Were sports dialogue less rigid, were attitudes more malleable, Rasheed may have had a chance. Rather than damning Wallace for what he isn't, we might have instead appreciated the intrinsic value of a diverse and refined skill set. Roscoe is fun to watch. Further, Roscoe hints at new possibilities, perhaps more than any other big man. Kevin Garnett, for instance, is many things, but a reliable post scorer and a three-point threat are not among them. Dirk Nowitzki, too, is many things, but an athletic and crafty defender has yet to appear on anyone's scouting report. Somehow, Rasheed doesn't get credit for what he is, nor, more rhapsodically, for what he's shown someone else might be. Seeing him score from the outside before drop-stepping and fading his way to more points on the next possession fairly invites the question of why he doesn't score more often, or more reliably. That said, more creative sports thinking could perhaps allow this inquiry to exist alongside greater admiration for Roscoe's game. Only, that's not how the world works. The emphasis, instead, is on how far he remains relative to where he is supposed to be.

Rasheed bears some blame, of course. His flare-ups have been counterproductive, and shameful moments like Game 6 against Cleveland three seasons ago strike at whatever sympathy his personality, history, and style encourage. Be moody. Reject that talent carries with it a mandate to aspire for greatness. But don't flout obligations, or punk out in such explosive, consuming fashion. Boorishness leads to anger. In that way, Roscoe has invited some scorn.



Miscreant or misunderstood, fairly criticized or unfairly villified, Sheed is most certainly not a superstar. He would likely be first to say so. He is, instead, a highly skilled complementary player, albeit one whose natural gifts are vast but not focused in the way that separates Kobe from Pietrus. As noted, this is the summer of Wallace's dreams.

On Wednesday, Roscoe officially signs up with the Celtics. The idea is that a healthy Kevin and the improved frontcourt depth which Rasheed creates will elevate the Celtics above the Cavs and the Magic, to say nothing of the Lakers. Rasheed will arrive to find a team with a leader (or three), a pecking order, a coach who juggles personalities, and a system. He is being added as Rasheed Wallace, Missing Link, not Rasheed Wallace, Primary Element. When he arrived in Detroit, despite assuming a role in the starting lineup and immediately becoming a prominent figure, he enjoyed similar luxuries. The Pistons had two guards who ran the offense and the team. The Pistons had a defensive anchor whose effort forbade anyone else from taking plays off. And--without rendering judgment about his disposition or playing the right way--the Pistons had LB, in all his lugubrious glory. (OK, so I judged his personality a little.)

In the D, Sheed wasn't asked to be "the leader" and wasn't asked to be "the guy" in a basketball sense. He was asked to assimilate--something he does well, as he's quite bright--and find ways to use his enormous ability in complementary fashion. Without compromising who he is, Wallace helped the Pistons win one title and come within a bad fourth quarter of repeating the next year. Perhaps it wasn't coincidental that the Pistons fell off as the coach left, the defensive anchor left, the point guard started to wear down, and more was quickly demanded from Rasheed. Judge Wallace as you will, but teams commonly cannot succeed when its players are asked to do things beyond their capabilities and comfort zones. That doesn't excuse untimely technicals, but it does, as usual, answer the more thoughtless dismissals that Wallace simply didn't fulfill his potential. For a time, he did. When those expectations grew outsized, he couldn't meet them and the team withered.



Awarding the 2010 championship to Boston on July 6th would be a little silly. Let's not do that. But let's acknowledge that Boston may be adding the most gifted role player of all time. And there is no intended shame in that distinction: as just noted, Roscoe knows the role he wants and has proven that he can acquit himself well when properly cast. In Boston, he will be afforded the opportunity to again demonstrate what he does, and how he best does it. A championship is not likely to undo all of the harm his reputation and legacy have incurred, but he might be able to affix some lasting repairs.

The question of temperament can't be avoided, so we should dwell upon that for a moment. Rasheed erupts sometimes. It will inevitably happen in Boston. (Can't wait to see how Boston treats such a flamboyant, on-court-angry black man if things don't go as planned.) But, is there anyone who credibly can argue that Sheed's temper will be a problem? When he has to walk back to a huddle which features a man who matched Kobe's playoff intensity while in street clothes, and probably while seated on his couch last month? Kevin Garnett will not suffer fools, distractions, or undermining tantrums. If anything, the rest of the league should be terrified. Combining Rasheed's indignation and KG's fury might resemble what would happen if the sun made a nuclear weapon and detonated it inside of a 100 supernovas. The entire Warriors backcourt could be blown off the court by the force of the energy. Also, if you can buy stock in something like "'motherfucker' being uttered in Boston," now might be a good time.



We are at a moment when the thrust of NBA activity centers around filling in at the margins and finding that last required piece. Sheed's been here, waiting for us to acknowledge this need. Everyone should let him do it.

Slip Not on My Tears as You Dance

First order of business: if you have not yet done so, please listen to this week's installment of FreeDarko Presents the Disciples of Clyde NBA Podcast. Shoefly was in the house as a guest on the show. Also, don't forget some of his excellent recent updates at Boxiana.

Second order of business: what follows is a reflection upon a changing of the NBA guard. Make note that it was wholly conceived independent of Shoals, who has made reference to and advanced a similar theory. He can, and surely will, better explain his take on it at a later date. Among other things, he's smarter than I am. But please know that this post reflects no collaboration or previous discussion.

Third order of business: you may know me from Straight Bangin', and as a sometime FreeDarko guest lecturer. Well, I have an account over here, now, and will be doing some writing. I hope that preempts any confusion. Onward...


This postseason, there is much to celebrate, what with the revelations that Denver is not Denver this year, Dallas is a new version of the old Dallas, and Kobe vs. LeBron is seemingly swelling toward a crest. Plus, we’ve received the usual glimpses of exciting youth, this year provided by Philadelphia (again), Chicago, and Portland (sort of). We also have the tabula rasa of Houston’s impending participation in a second round: it is either a fairy tale about Yao’s quiet fortitude and the harnessing of new, quirky powers (who knew Aaron Brooks would be this way?), or it is the latest cause for lamentation as we continue to chronicle the heartbreak that is Tracy McGrady. We might even add that these playoffs, so far, stand as a refutation to the tired criticism that the NBA is solely a league of isolation and one over five. To the contrary, while stars continue to shine bright, it is readily apparent that it takes a real team to win. Were it otherwise, Orlando wouldn’t be mired in panic, and New Orleans wouldn’t be an afterthought. (Maybe this makes Dwyane Wade even more impressive.)

That’s all good, however, it’s not most pressing in my mind. This is almost surely a function of my rooting interests, but these playoffs, through two weekends, have taken on an elegiac tone that cannot be escaped. I am enticed by the good, of course, but I’ve found myself dwelling on the bad. Or, really, the sad.


(props to nahright)

2009 marks the end of an era in the NBA. Some would argue “error” (zing!), but nonetheless, caring about the Pistons and Spurs was a rite of spring that is suddenly useless. The Spurs will soon be over, either now or in the next round, most likely. The Pistons are surely over. Their twin demises are not shocking, but now that they’ve arrived, the reality is somewhat jarring. I’d fallen into the habit of caring about these teams, of considering these teams, of closely watching these teams. That’s no longer necessary, and that’s weird. The Spurs and Pistons have served as barometers for the league this decade. We’ve calibrated our beliefs about worth and value using those heretofore enduring measuring posts. You don’t just switch off the gold standard to something else and not notice. You know?

But it’s bigger than those two teams, even. Kevin Garnett, who long suffered from knee problems that are degenerative and won’t just get better with surgery and rest, is not a part of the playoffs. It’s a sad portend of his coming decline, as his departure from our regular consideration will draw to a close a period of NBA history when a league of brand names grown in college started regularly running into the newjacks who short circuited the process. Beyond the obvious lessons taken from that merger of those disjointed cultural norms, Garnett had special meaning, because he was almost a template for a new kind of fan relationship with players. Without college incubation, Garnett’s growth as a person and a player was harder to discern, and to predict. But his youth, which served as his defining characteristic having never gone to college, also invited fans to care about him in a different sort of way. At least, that’s how I felt. I so desperately hoped for his success because I thought he needed it. He was just a kid. Actually, he was Da Kid, which seems even more apt when Garnett is cast in this light.

But it’s bigger than KG, too. Allen Iverson effectively played his way out of NBA relevance this year, and the consensus appears to be that he won’t be coming back. Iverson, too, was a certain sort of paradigm who marked the shift in the NBA. The interregnum between Magic-Larry-Michael and LeBron-Wade-Paul-Howard may not have clean dividing lines, and its leading historical stars may be Shaq, Tim Duncan, and Kobe, but Iverson, more than anyone else, was clearly of that time. He arguably was that time, his body, itself, standing as a testament to a change in the Association. He’s now gone, an absence made even more conspicuous because his team has chosen to play without him.



To all of these reasons for mournful reflection, we might add a contemporary sadness: Dwight Howard. Blaming him for Orlando’s feebleness, and almost palpable panic, may not be fair. He was terrible in Game Two, but he’s otherwise played well. And yet, it seems impossible to not be angry at him, and disappointed in him. Some of it may be our fault. Since August, we’ve deified him, almost willing the manifestation of his potential. And he obliged in every way--he was stellar on the floor, he grew as a player, and he seems to have no limits as a personality. That may have simultaneously neglected his shortcomings and set unrealistic expectations. Let’s be straight up: for all of his muscular excitement, Dwight has few moves and no jumper. He hit two big free throws in crunch time last night, but he’s far from reliable at the stripe. With a smaller man pinned at the basket, the Defensive Player of the Year couldn’t find a way to prevent the game-winning layup. And on a team that was so clearly jittery in the clutch, he did little to mollify nerves. Reading that back makes me depressed. That’s the problem. He’s not where I want him to be yet.

Kind of like these playoffs. For as much good as we’ve seen, there’s been an equal amount of bad. At least, for me, there has been. It’s an odd duality well captured by the Celtics, in fact. As sad as it is to watch Kevin Garnett reduced to the world’s most profane, best-dressed cheerleader, Rajon Rondo’s playoff performance has been a sensational counter, offering the sort of boundary-challenging performance we like to celebrate and mythologize. Of course, it likely comes from necessity precisely because Kevin is hurt. I don’t think one necessarily trumps the other, but this year, the bad seems to be a consequence of the good in a way that’s more pronounced than usual.

Wind and Tickle

Take a good long look at Shoals' NBA Finals dissection here. Read an extremely good article about our lord and savior here.


And now he's gone.

I take no solace, Detroit, in saying "I told you so." Yes essentially all of my FD posts for the past three years + my Pistons/Bulls Deadspin preview in which I deemed him a "playoff nightmare" foreshadowed this very moment. But make no mistake, I wanted to see Flip get his. I even changed my tune on Flip's coaching abilities ever so slightly this year. It looked as though the Pistons' omniscient swag had run off on him a bit. But at the end of the day, Flip is not the coach that can get you to the next level, and he's not the coach that can get you to the finals. And he is the coach who gets out-coached by Doc Rivers (yikes).

Last Thursday, I told the Recluse and Shoals that whichever coach lost the Pistons/Celtics series would be out (I also added that Avery Johnson would take over the consequent vacancy--MICHAEL CURRY WTF?????!!??). It just gets to the point where people/Dumars are overemploying logical syllogisms to something far more complicated: If the Pistons core four + Larry Brown = the NBA finals, and the Pistons core four + Flip Saunders = not the NBA finals, then Flip Saunders = not the NBA finals.

Flip's looseness is one of his greatest assets, allowing him to coexist with notorious headcases such as Rasheed Wallace and Latrell Sprewell, but his nonchalance, and the fact he has zero NBA roots pre-Timberwolves also makes him--to get on some Billups channeling Michael Clayton bit for a second--"the guy you kill." Rudy T, Larry Brown, even Don Nelson...they're not the guy you kill, they're the guy you buy.



And now he's gone. It will be interesting to see what happens with KG over the next week or so, and (if the Lakers win) whether there is a slight moment of redemption for Kevin McHale. The failure of those relationships and tenures have been placed squarely on the shoulders of Mac, but at the end of the day McHale's real failure was hanging on to those guys for too long. KG and Flip like shooting jumpers. McHale liked to deck people in the mouth.

Back to Detroit for a second...at the end of the day, that core four group has essentially one year left of window. Chauncey and Rip showed themselves as bruisable this year, Sheed's shtick is wearing on some, and If the NBA were the MLB, we would expect McDyess to show up in the Mitchell Report. I really hoped that Avery J was going to get this job and we could look forward to the PISTONS REVENGE TOUR 2009, but with Curry at the helm I have no idea what to expect.

Selling Grapes at Divine Prices

My knee-jerk reaction is to say that the Pistons are the best thing in sports right now, the last of a dying breed, in which a team of people over the age of 20 act like a bunch grown ass men. Like they've seen things that they couldn't describe to you, because you wouldn't understand it. They'll tell you a story, sure, and they might give you a nickel, but that's all you're gonna get. Antonio McDyess has lived three lifetimes. Lindsey Hunter has lived through three major depressions. Chauncey Billups has played for every team in the league. Tayshaun Prince has the physique of a Harlem Globetrotter. Whereas guys like Rick Ross and Kimbo Slice rock beards as an adornment, Rip Hamilton and Rasheed Wallace wear them simply because they are old...

Which makes it no surprise that Rodney Stuckey has come out of the womb fully formed. The clear consensus around the closed-door boardroom is that Stuckey is the most FreeDarko player in the league right now. Defying all conventional wisdom about how a player of his caliber should carry himself, bursting with potential and taking (but somehow making) the most ill-advised shots in tight situations. Guys like Stucky are not supposed to play on the road like he has. Guys like Stuckey are not supposed to play in the playoffs, period (see Allen, Tony). Although it could debunk my three-year thesis that KG's problems in Minny were a result solely of bad coaching, I have to give Flip Saunders his props for trusting every single one of his guys, rolling out the ball, and seeing what the hell they can do.

mcdyess garnett nothingness

Now that we've reached the Final Four stage of the playoffs, we figured we should chat the first game, as uneventful as it was. If you're looking for something more substantive, check out Shoals on the Western Conference and our continuing series of playoff previews on Deadspin.

Recluse: is chicago getting the #1 freedarko or not?
DLIC: sure, derrick rose going home

Recluse: i think it depends on the coach

DLIC: avery johnson. he will ruin derrick rose.

Shoals: that assistant GM is the biggest herb ever

Shoals: ultimate determinant of organizational FD-ness: who you send to the lottery

DLIC: i can't believe miami sent caron butler a few years ago. that is totally fd.

DLIC: d'antoni looked embarrassed

Shoals: bilas sounds retarded calling rose "a more explosive williams"

Shoals: since deron has become explosive

Recluse: he should have said rose was a svelte williams. williams is a hoss.

Shoals: why does no one want beasley? i think this rose buzz is a little overdone

DLIC: shawn marion is going to become a celtic. i can feel it.

DLIC: nobody wants beasley because of durant and melo
Recluse: beasley has some amare-like baggage

Shoals: beasley was fine in school and had that comment about letting him be a kid

Recluse: k$u hardly counts as a "school"

DLIC: durant and beasley being tight doesn't bode well
Shoals: why doesn't it bode well? durant is like the ultimate character witness

DLIC: because they're gonna eat doritos in the offseason. no hard work.
Recluse: durant, beasley, and ty lawson all went to high school together. all they do is play basketball.

DLIC: kg's shot chart is disgusting. he's clearly exhausted taking all those jumpers.

Shoals: my god, garnett has become schlempf

Shoals: do they keep showing all these hulk commercials because of the celtics?

Recluse: ed norton = celtics

DLIC: ed norton is the shit. that dude picks his movies so well. check his imdb page. HIGHLY selective. like daniel day lewis. (25th hour sucked, though.)

Recluse: don't insult DDL like that. ed norton is overrated.

DLIC: the 25th hour is a disgrace to norton and spike lee's legacy

Recluse: spike lee is a disgrace to spike lee's legacy

DLIC: spike lee needs to do another biopic

Shoals: he's going to do jack molinas

DLIC: uconn produces exclusively boring players (save for khalid el amin):

villanueva

donyell marshall

ray allen

rip hamilton

Recluse: okafor

Shoals: RUDY

Recluse: ben gordon

DLIC: flip saunders and doc rivers are out-uncoaching each other

DLIC: jvg seems to be criticizing doc a lot. if jvg was coaching the celtics, they would win the championship. i think he's just trying to make mark jackson look like a fool for his coacher-ly pretensions

Recluse: mark jackson's coaching philosophy = "be a hype man"

Shoals: wtf "i'm trusting you. reward my faith"

DLIC: jackson and jvg are tight. don't worry

Recluse: who would make a better coach: mark jackson or sam cassell?
DLIC: mark jackson. sam cassell coaching defense?
Shoals: hearing mark jackson talk about basketball reminds me of this book about terrorism i was reading

Shoals: about how this one radical cleric didn't know any theology and just yelled, saying some key words over and over. and it worked.

Shoals: abu hamza

Shoals: i only like players who could be terrorists

Recluse: that's the argument for cassell?

Shoals: no, it's an argument against jackson. cassell wouldn't try and teach. he pushes people around and grunts

DLIC: cassell is too arrogant

Recluse: okay, well, that's settled

Shoals: seriously, don't you feel like jvg is trying to undermine jackson's newfound seriousness? or at least play the non-straight man to the extreme?

Shoals: he's one of the best basketball minds out there, and he's making all the jokes

DLIC: jvg's sole mission is to screw over the nba with subliminals. he's getting his revenge through commentating

DLIC: the pistons could have come out so much harder (pause) and taken this series by the throat. the celtics are so vulnerable right now

Shoals: double pause

DLIC: tired. old. all the pressure is on them.

Recluse: i think you could put my five favorite players on the celtics, and i would hate them solely because of their fans

Shoals: ok, so what are the major themes of this game?

DLIC: um, two teams that would get torched by the warriors

Shoals: what do you think of the nickname "tayshaunasaurus rex"

DLIC: remember that terrible fight between mcdyess and kg?

Shoals: why was it terrible?

DLIC: ummm, http://slumz.boxden.com/showthread.php?t=841305
DLIC: wait: http://uncutvideo.aol.com/videos/9ac6bd1c2d139ffba96745b998e2453a

DLIC: the slumz one says "girlfight" which is funny

Shoals: it never really started. i liked the name of the uncut one: "mcdyess garnett nothingness"

Shoals: wait, boston is up 11?

DLIC: yes, this game is over

Shoals: how did that happen?

Recluse: the pistons are always bitches in game 1. this one's going 7.

DLIC: i dont know, detroit kept fouling. detroit could have won the series tonight

Shoals: i was thinking that, actually. like wow, if either detroit or los angeles wins their first game on the road, they've really been like "hey bitch, see what i've done, and you haven't." i mean, l.a. has home court, so it doesn't matter as much

DLIC: the loss of bynum dooms the lakers

Shoals: in the playoffs?

DLIC: yes. against the spurs

Shoals: dude, have you watched them?

DLIC: that's a hard six fouls on duncan. yes i've watched them. they haven't played anybody good. at least this series will probably expose the demise of bowen.

Recluse: TURIAF

Shoals: the spurs almost lost to the hornets

Shoals: the lakers can destroy the hornets

DLIC: nobody on the lakers can stop parker though. nobody.

DLIC: and parker won't have anyone to guard

Shoals: fisher

Recluse: fisher

DLIC: parker is the fastest player in the entire playoffs

Shoals: somehow i've gone from hating derek fisher during his first time with the lakers to thinking he's kind of a pimp.

DLIC: fisher king

Shoals: i think it had to do with realizing he'd like the same age as me. and kobe's best friend.

Shoals: people have guarded parker in the past

Recluse: fisher has HEART

Shoals: and hips. he's like a rolling stones song about racism

Recluse: if he can guard deron williams, he can guard parker

Shoals: well, i'd say, if he can stop deron, and deron can stop paul, then he can stop parker. also, i feel like parker was showing off against the hornets. or, more charitably, rising to the occasion of playing paul. like his drives were a lot more ornate. plus he had double-digit assists.

Shoals: i just had this crazy thought about what if european players only see each other when they play like in this series, parker's like "you and me, gasol"

DLIC: that is some m. night shamalyan shit

DLIC: maxiell and stuckey will win more rings that garnett

Shoals: what if the pistons modeled the latest polo line? that would be a good look, right?

Shoals: i think this is the story of this game: celtics tired. billups injured.

Shoals: it's like a game of paper/scissors/rock.

Shoals: here's what i don't get: if the celtics have heart, shoudn't they see an opportunity and make a statement. instead of just sort of coasting with a ten point lead?

DLIC: you answered your own question. they don't have heart. posey has heart. pj brown. sam cassell, except he doesn't have a body.

Shoals: are they chanting "palsy?"

Shoals: rondo needs to play on a team of point guards

DLIC: the nuggets need rondo

Shoals: the nuggets are rondo

Shoals: actually, we're just saying all this because a rondo/j.r. backcourt would be. . .heaven: picture-perfect for their positions but perfectly retarded

DLIC: rondo + melo, rondo + jr, rondo + k-mart (throat slash gesture)

Shoals: why does big baby have a sticker on his face in that ad? isn't that what you get garnett for? to keep people from doing shit like that?

Shoals: this game is so weirdly muted. it's like it's being played in secret. with armed guards outside. like they're trying to sneak it past us

DLIC: wallace might be less clutch than garnett. here's what i hate about today's nba: when baron davis explodes like he did last year or when pierce goes for 40. or when nash becomes john stockton at age 50. you get the feeling like FUCK, these dudes have been holding out on us. they're playing extra safe. worrying about injuries, contracts, whatever. even if not explicitly, subconsciously they aren't playing at 100% for like four years. but the second they get a chance at a title

DLIC: it's like, ok time to play hard.

Recluse: i don't know, i think it's physically impossible to go that hard every game
DLIC: davis sucked for like three years
Shoals: he was hurt all the time, though. and didn't get along with the coach. i just think it's that there are so many variables in basketball. anything can happen.
DLIC: i feel like duncan is the only person who hasn't held out on us. and for that reason, he reigns supreme

DLIC: is obama speaking yet?