Madvillainy

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

DR. J'S SUPER THINK TROLL ASSOCIATES

What do Patrick Ewing, Rumeal Robinson, and Wayne Marshall have in common? They all went to high school at Cambridge Rindge and Latin, and they were all born in Jamaica -- except for the Wayne Marshall who submits the following "imaginary archaeology" of a mysterious recording by Dr. J; he does share his name, however, with a Jamaican singer and has written extensively about reggae (and hip-hop, reggaeton, and global club music) at his blog, wayne&wax. Follow him at @wayneandwax.

On one very merry late 70s Christmas morning, a young Markie D, yet to rise to local stardom as one of Boston's several answers to Doug E. Fresh, found in his stocking a cassette boasting amazing contents: basketball "SUPER THINK" according to Julius Erving. Released by the suspicious but nonetheless seemingly credible TROLL ASSOCIATES, Dr. J's informational and inspirational spoken-word performance had a reportedly noticeable effect on Markie's ability to penetrate the perimeter. But when those dividends dried up around the same time hip-hop came to town, the tape was -- somewhat ceremoniously -- taped over, scotch guarding the knocked-out knockout tabs that tell cassette-players to keep their heads to themselves. (As noted clearly on the cassette, duplication was prohibited, but the word was mum on overdubbing.) For several years the tape played host to the latest greatest raps one could catch on the airwaves, or copy via visiting cousins from New York.

Eventually, it served as the eye-popping receptacle of 9 minutes of beatbox fury, bragadocious cautionary tales, and reverb freakouts, carefully packed and mailed to DJ Magnus, whose "Lecco's Lemmas" radio show on WMBR (and later WZBC) was fast becoming the primary platform for the Bean's aspiring rap talents, including a young, recently-relocated-to-Brooklyn M.C. Keithy E (aka, the late, great Guru of Gang Starr).



The broadcast of these 9 minutes may have warped more minds than the TROLL ASSOCIATES' original and perhaps even taught more listeners the proper method for driving the lane despite that the wisdom of Dr. J had by this point been encrypted into a series of throat clicks, pursed-lip bass bombs, and allusions to famous German automatons counting in Spanish. Recently rediscovered by vinyl librarian Pacey Foster, Boston's premiere hip-hop historian and assistant professor of management, now you too can learn how to dunk like Dr. J, or at least maybe rock the bells like Markie D.

Encounters with Deities: The J-Zone interview

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dr. LIC: What happened to Allen Iverson?

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

Dr. LIC: Any other predictions for this season?

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

A Grade-School Terror

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

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

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



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

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

You May Have Heard It Happened

I know, not only is this site barren, I've now resorted to straightforward photos of players. Players I was slow to embrace as postseason creatures (for the record, it took one win before I believed Believe. There's a gulf between theory and practice for me, and it's called proof.) Really though, what the fuck does this image mean? Anyway, here's some stuff elsewhere, but all under FD's dominion, that may interest you:

-New Disciples of Clyde podcast.

-Ziller and I adventure into the Bobcats and get hit in the head with a pan.

-I'm writing every day about what happened, and what's about to happen, in the playoffs. You will like this one, which is about the logic of styles and systems and tropes of wisdom.

And, after much thought, this is my favorite Gangstarr song. There's some sentimental reasons at play, but I think that's the case with a lot of people's Gangstarr picks.

A Fair Share of Rudiment

Some very important corners of the web finally got around today to wondering about Jay-Z paying Dwyane Wade. The explanation has been laid out several places and now linked to where millions of eyes will catch the fever. So that's that. We all know what's up, drugs in the house and no tampering.

Howeeevs (long e), there have been radical developments since "NY State of Mind" stopped ringing in my ears. Namely, LeBron James switched his number from 23 to 6. So now, if Jeezy's paying LeBron prices, he's getting his for 6K a kilo. Not as good as Jay, but everyone knows that Hov is an old, washed-up liar, while Jeezy still occasionally shows up in court documents. Under his alias, Mr. Pickle and Fright, of course. But back to the matter at hand: So now, if the international cocaine market is, as I've always suspected, governed by NBA jersey numbers, then Jeezy is getting a really good deal himself.

That's only one layer of the mystery, as they say. Why would LeBron James go and do a favor for Jeezy, when Jay-Z has been been big brother since before Akron was more than a place from Greek mythology that someone got to visit? That's right, you guessed it: LeBron is going to the Hawks. I know that Jeezy isn't an owner yet, or officially, but how hard would it be for him to purchase a minority stake? Him going to the Hawks allows the coke price to drop for a part owner which means the financial picture for the franchise changes drastically in ways that means going way over the cap is no problem.

When it comes to the world of money and stuff, perception is stronger than reality. That's how a song, which is just a bunch of words, can actually have these real world implications. You know why? Because those lines are really memorable and "NYSOM" was a huge hit. So when deals get determined, it creeps in, insidiously. In the end, Jay's hit-making prowess may have destroyed the future of the Nets. I can't stand it anymore.

This may be tampering but it's also an NBA team funded by drug money. I don't even know where to start with that.

NOTE: THIS IS ALL FICTION.

NOTE: This is my really long and thoughtful piece about this year's tournament.

NOTE: This blog will be pumpin' out more when I'm done with book stuff, in like a week or so. Hopefully.

Hospital Power

Remember that time we posted three years' worth of homages to the Ultramagnetic MCs 1989 All-Star theme? How about when they did it again for the 2009!.

Now it's time to wait no more: Here's the 2010 version. All 15.48 minutes of it.



UPDATE: Some thoughts from me on what makes a dunker.

Cancel Everything

WTF
WTF
WTF
WTF
WTF
WTF

I never understood all those metaphors about faces melting and brains collapsing until now.

Oh, and CHECK OUT THIS POST FROM EARLIER!

It's his Pasture

Okay, what's getting lost in this whole LeBron James/Russian tycoon/global tycoon synergy is WHERE THE FUCK JAY FITS IN. For pure spurts and puddles, read Woj's column on Mikhail Prokhorov, which will leave you thinking that Prokhorov is hard (of course), his money questionable (it's Russian), and his grand entrance into the lobby of a NYC hotel nothing short of a Jay-Z video.

Incidental, you say? Did Sean fail, since his token ownership stake failed to get the Nets relocated, or generate that much buzz? What about this: Even if the man mattered very little in this particular case, it's his influence that allows James and Prokhorov to make so much sense together. His presence in this deal may add some residual cred, and make it pop a little more, but it's more a lifetime achievement award. Remember, Jay was the first to take the hustle all the way into the boardroom, and make the boardroom respect it. Forget the kingpin fantasies that made our favorite music. That was the old totem; Jay saw a way to really leverage street smarts, and street branding, in a way that brought him real power.

Is he still the figurehead he once was? No matter what you think of the new joint, the answer is no. He's closer and closer to Russell Simmons everyday. That is, less and less involved in any real manipulation of what we might term "gangter capital." Gangsters by themselves are business rubes, at least once they try and enter the halls of legal money. Capital of all kinds is synonymous with selling out, exactly the reason why anyone trying to be the Next Jordan has to tread lightly: Jordan could get away with anything, and even he ended up a corporatized shell on the public stage.

I believe in the power of music. I believe that Jay-Z inspired a generation to believe that there was no shame in trying to clean up a little and invest back in ventures that didn't have to choose between profit and legitimacy. He made a seamless transition from fake drug kingpin (is mafia even lower than this?), to vague wealthy and influential baller with skeletons in the closet, to the nexus of the board room and the streets in a way that worked for everyone. LeBron wants to be like Jay, not Mike; this Russian fellow finds himself with instant credibility because of the pioneering work done by the man without a pen. When the photo opp happens, he needs to symbolically bless the handshake, because it might be his greatest legacy.

(You try and tell me how "My President is Black" fits in here.)

In other news, I am positively baffled by Flip's "Arenas will have the ball more than eighty percent of the time because we're scrapping Princeton". Isn't that an awful lot already? I know that Butler and the other guards did touch it sometimes, and that Arenas's quickness/quick release means he doesn't stand around so much. But I just don't see how this does anything to encourage a change in Gil's game, or the team's complexion. It's not like he was being denied his touches or discouraged from attacking before. This is what happens when Ziller or Kevin Pelton aren't online early.

Update: Maybe he meant "I want him to control the ball and run the offense, not just fire away or attack." But the comment was about % of the time Gil has the ball, not how patient he is.

Go Go Commerce!

Like Nike needs my help in promoting this ad. But this is so classic, I have to post it. This is that strain of Nike ad-making that fueled the business up until recently, and helped create players as much as they helped create it. "The LeBrons" picked it up briefly, but this confirms what I'd been hearing: That these companies know the demand is there, and have been trying to get back to this. I definitely attribute this to Twitter, though not Obama; not sure how my theory about those two phenomena works when you introduce a third element. Regardless, this is the shit, even if it's somewhat redolent of past Undrcrwn efforts.

Stray thoughts:

-The mystery of Shard continues. I only found out recently that, rather than speaking in an affect-less whisper, dude has a thick Houston accent. How I didn't know this until recently is anyone's guess. But now he goes and raps in a way that in no way indicates his regional roots. This isn't a referendum on his skill as a rapper, though I guess bad rappers sound more generic. Just surprised me, in the same way that Delonte's bland freestyle voice did. Iverson should've set the precedent on this one!

-Where's the part, mentioned on Mo Williams's Twitter, where Iguodala saves AutoTune from stagnation? Now he doesn't even get a verse?

-Lewis looks most costumed. Williams, like that's what he wears around the house. Durant makes me think about what this ad means to people who aren't old enough to get all the references (includng him).

-Spent last night in the ID looking at Japanese teen fashion magazine. That's kind of the vibe I get from this.

-Never have I felt less like the ad world needed me. And I think that's a good thing.

-Is there going to be a backlash that demands more differentiation between West/East, or Afrocentric/gangster? It is all kind of lumped together. That's what makes the ad so great to me, but to the purist, it could be dangerous.

-Is this archaeology, a la the Jordan 9th game vid, or self-aware nostalgia?

-Mainstream-ing after the fact? Not that this stuff was so inaccessible, but rap's definitely bigger now than then.

-Back to the previous question: Exoticism, roots, or both?

-Finally: Missed opportunity that Ice Cube and Kobe appears in a Nike SB ad but failed to address the 3x2, to my mind the defining ball moment of West Coast hip-hop?

To Hold On Tight We Must Let Go

The days are not good for Allen Iverson. The one-time beacon of personal integrity, triumphal dysfunction, and "fuck the world" stylistic rights currently sits out in the cold. He's hoping some team will look past his recent disappointments, figure several accelerated half-lives have made his legacy less radioactive, and give him a chance to make a roster like a blaxploitation Kevin Costner character. So perhaps now is not the time to launch an entirely new critique of AI.

However, the rise of Twitter has me rethinking that foundation of Iverson's NBA being: his authenticity. Allen Iverson, above all else, was his own man, did what he wanted, and forced the world to accept him on this own terms. This was where he picked up momentum as a hip-hop icon, which is to say, while others screamed "thug", he simply brushed them off as ignorant or sheltered. There's a tendency, even a need, to separate AI the world-historical figure from AI the athletic performer. In both cases, however, Iverson exemplified "realness"—perhaps to a pathological degree, but nonetheless in a way that informed the direction of the league and the players who came up idolizing him as much as Jordan.

Hence, as much as we speak of the post-Jordan days, I myself had become accustomed to the "post-Iverson" age. In this (gulp) dialectic, there seemed to always be a hard edge, or uncompromising bluntness, to be reckoned with. There was Jordan's universal appeal, met head-on by Iverson's populist bluster. The players spat out of this maelstrom were some combination of the two; Allen Iverson came to symbolize a mish-mash of unapologetic ghetto roots, "wrong way" ball, not taking shit from no one, and a wary intelligence that could often be its own worst enemy. Carmelo Anthony, post-Iverson because he was hood plus Magic Johnson's effervescent charm; Gilbert Arenas, idiosyncratic and disruptive as a player and person, but writing his own script with all the whimsy of a Saturday morning cartoon.

Jordan was a sales pitch, Iverson a doctrine. Except that, at the risk of offending a bunch of people, Iverson's persona was itself a posture. This may sound pedestrian, or simplistic, but at what point did we decide that Iverson (or Tupac) wasn't, to some degree, faking it, putting it on, selling us a bill of goods based around a very deliberate refusal to play by the rules? AI was certainly faced with difficult circumstances, and had to make tough decisions about what path to follow. And yet over the long haul, it became as opaque a guise as Jordan's Sphinx-like mask. They may have been polar opposites, but their inflexibility and predictability ultimately made them two sides of the same coin.

Should we bemoan the fact that, in the age of Twitter, authenticity is no longer about any iteration of “the struggle,” or truce between the two sides, but the possibility that individual athletes be both accessible and undeniably themselves? The stakes may have been lowered, and yet better a feed like Rudy Gay’s inform our sense of athlete “realness” than AI’s on-message scowl. Relaxation on its own is empty, taking a stand indefinitely is its own kind of blandness.

Incidentally, anyone who’s seen Iverson in the locker room, or otherwise with his guard down, knows that dude would be a monster on Twitter.

So You Can See Me Now

It's rarely stated explicitly, but FD has a long and lasting connection to hip-hop. For all our jazz pretensions and obvious Pitchfork ties, many of us were shaped and formed by rap music, and spent many long hours trying to make sense of our place as fans and, in some cases, participants. All I know is that, no matter what they take from me, they can't take away the first time I heard Rakim, or Straight Outta Compton, or The Infamous. I've more or less repressed all the time I spent flirting with the tape trade underground, but certain albums, however obvious, are as much a part of my musical consciousness as, say, The Band (which came way later, by the way). I will even now unapologetically assert that Wu-Tang changed my life, without leaning too hard on Cuban Linx, but only if I only get credit for knowing most every Guru lyric by heart.

Why am I bothering to tell you all this? Well, mostly as a show of support for Dr. LIC's Straight Bangin' guest post on "why I hate rap now". It was supposed to be a "top 10 albums of the century" joint, but when the Doctor was blocked, and only go going when he realized what the problem was. I didn't even try and bother. Maybe I was always a tourist, maybe that "N.W.A. and Public Enemy were like punk rock" line had more truth to it than I thought. All I know is that, after having intently followed hip-hop since I first bought Raising Hell and yes, Licensed to Ill (gateway pass) in third grade, I'm just not interested these days. Did I give up hope? Grow out of it? Prove that I never had any place in it to begin with? I don't lose much sleep over ferreting out the answer.

But like I said, I think the good Doctor's post does a lot to explain why I've drifted further and further away, and right now own probably like three recordings from the 21st. My list would probably have included The Cold Vein, Supreme Clientale, Philadelphia Freeway, The Black Album, and Got It 4 Cheap 2. And yeah, I know there's definitely a problem/disconnect there, which is why I'll plead alienation instead of (for once) reaching for overwrought justification.

UPDATE: To reiterate, if you're in New York, and want to see me and most every other sports blogger of note on panels, attend Blogs With Balls.

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.

If You Don't Look Good, I Don't Look Good

This morning, my distinguished colleague twitted the following about everyone's favorite char-broiled NBA lightning rod, and sub-rosa racial interloper:

lingering thought-did kobe really say "i'm an 80s baby" when asked about the artest foul? what type of bs cred is he trying to buy? (and, my standard qualification: i still LOVE kobe...it's just...what a nerd)

Now, without taking anything away from Dr. LIC's intuition—yes, this sounded contrived, and almost made you think that Kobe had planned out a semi-youthful, semi-traditionalist way of framing the situation in advance. But whatever persistent reason you may have settled on for mocking Bryant (his fake-ness, his cultural uncomfortable-ness, his personality, his self-consciousness), we're all assuming that Kobe doesn't understand where Jay-Z stands these days. It's entirely conceivable that Bryant knows that, these days, Jay is pop culture detritus, not the lingua franca of street cred. The remark was fun, flippant, and knowing, an admittedly nerdy way of evoking Jay-Z as both foundational and cliched. Being goofy with hip-hop is dangerous territory, especially for Bryant, but does the alternative—that he cluelessly tried to channel the streetz and fell flat—is to give the guy way too little credit. The only thing worse than caricaturing players is caricaturing ourselves as fans.

This feeds into what might be the most compelling mano y mano rivalry of the playoffs. No, it's not Kobe/Bron; that 1 point/minute average for James has him in a stratosphere all his own for now, especially given how easy it's looked for him. It's this Kobe/Ron Ron binary that's emerged not so much on the court (all elbows aside), but in the imagination of the public. If Bryant's slammed for tip-toeing around hip-hop, Artest is lionized as a man who walks with a cloud of Mobb Deep samples over his head whether or not he ever explicitly makes the connection. If he did an entire post-game interview with Kool G Rap quotes, bloggers would faint from glee. Never mind for a second that if you want to get aesthetic about it, Artest's hip-hop analogue is M.O.P., while Kobe can tap into a far more substantial lineage of self-serious, style-laden masters. Or that Artest is going out of his way to repaint himself as a tough player, not a hood one, going so far as to suggest that there's no essential connection between the two.

And then you have Artest faintly conspired against by the league, and Kobe riding a wave of whispers about a rigged Lakers/Cavs Finals. Not to say this has turned into a study in racial or cultural contrasts—or that it should be either—but once again, Kobe's being cast in, pardon my pun, a black/white situation. Maybe Kobe isn't as "real" as Artest, but is Artest a player driven solely by what he learned from Kool G Rap fantasies? Isn't Artest way more Bad Boys than Kobe? If all this boils down to is "Artest saw friends die on the basketball court and Kobe grew up rich," then we might as well ignore everything they've accomplished, and asserted, as professional athletes—and admittedly convoluted adults.

Do that, then you can start arguing about who belongs to hip-hop, or who hip-hop belongs to, in the NBA.

Of Course You Knew It

From the YouTube description: "Backstage at a Too Short show last year. Baron Davis (aka Flava Flav) claims that Stephen Jackson (aka Chuck D) is 'the sickest rapper' he knows. Baron lied. Stephen Jackson cannot rap." Whatever.

Don't forget to buy our newest shirts.

There's No Ritual in Fun!

If you've been reading this site for a minute, or haven't but found yourself inexplicably drawn to it, you're probably familiar with this timeless clip:



Stage set. When I was on the road, I met this guy in New York who swore that he and his friend had kept this torch alive, recording their own awkward, lo-fi, partly freestyled, and did I mention, very white, homages to these perfect nine minutes of Ultramag weird/NBA classic synergy. He got in touch with me over the weekend and blessed me with mp3's of their efforts, as well as assurances that the 2009 edition is on its way. So without further anticipation, here's Doug S. and friend down through the years:

All-Star 2006
All-Star 2007
All-Star 2008

While you won't exactly hear the recent history of rap played out in these tracks, there is definite evolution as they, I don't know, figure out how to use a computer and control their voices. Even if you don't get all the way through all of them—and you should—at least respect the monk-ish devotion and triumph over god-given limitations. Not to proselytize, but this just might be the FD version of the inspired fan jingle.

P.S. New post later today or early tomorrow. Also, the FD Twitter is so on and poppin' that it warrants getting an account.

HOLY GRAIL ALERT



Video of the 1976 Spirits of St. Louis team, one of those ones that got away from my lifetime.

Profiles In Strange

A little slow on the uptake here, but I have to pay respects to one of the most freakish freaks of all time: Daunte Culpepper. So often the term, FREEDARKO, gets equated with "style" or "flair" or "absurdity," but a huge component of what it means to be FD is to be full of unrealized potential, and no one walks away from the game with more unrealized potential than Daunte. For all intents and purposes, Vikings fans (like me circa 2004) should hate Daunte Culpepper and should be pointing "told you so" at him right now. Indeed after Daunte whined his way out of Minnesota, the flyover fucks on the Vikings message boards were quick to toss out racial epithets, highlight the fact that Daunte was born in a prison, and welcome Brad Johnson (BRAD F'ING JOHNSON) as the new savior. There is something about Daunte's exit from the sporting world though, that is undeniably sad.

















I don't care that it was his fault, pride, stubbornness, stupidity, whatever that kept him as his own agent and kept him from playing this year. We are losing one of the bizarre wonders of the athletic form in Daunte. I know there is this racialized way of talking about black football players' physical attributes while focusing on white players' "smarts" or "work ethic;" and I know that the way announcers used to talk about Daunte's "bigness" was as annoyingly common as remarks about "Matt Birk went to Harvard," "Brett Favre looks like a little kid out there," etc. Still, I fear that we may never see another player like Culpepper. There was the story about how Mike Ditka wanted to draft him as a tight end. He almost signed a baseball contract. I remember him tackling the shit out of some guy after he threw an interception. Before the injury I have never seen someone that big also run so quickly with such a cannon of an arm. Culpepper was what steroids are supposed to make you be. Losing him in the NFL would be like the NBA losing Ron Artest, a guy who I still think should play center at some points. The sheer peculiarity of Daunte's skill made him a joy to watch. Almost like some Coen Bros-curated football film.

And now we look destined for a decade of Aaron Rodgers, Joe Flacco, Matt Ryan, and Jay Cutler. It will be a turning of the tide indeed, but we will have to wait for someone else to bring oddity back to the quarterback position.


















Profile in Strange Part II. Some of you may be aware of our roots, and how a decent few of us had a bubbling interest in the indie-rap explosion of the mid-1990s. At the center of this movement was Bobbito Garcia's legendary Fondle Em record label and the fifth release on that label, Siah & Yeshua Da PoED's EP. The EP contained six songs, each a classic in its own right, including the magnum opus, "A Day Like Any Other." Siah and Yeshua had Posdnuos/Dove-type chemistry on the mic and ill fantasy jazz production. Like so many groups from that era, they became ever more obscure. Yeshua remained strong in the New York scene with his group Wee Bee Foolish and I believe he started a label of his own. But Siah became a mystery. One of the most promising voices in rap became a ghost.



















There were rumors he moved to Israel or went to law school. Thanks to the internet, I discovered that Siah went to grad school at Johns Hopkins for a poly sci degree. The crazy thing though is that his advisor was then neo-con Francis Fukuyama, with whom he co-authored a paper for the Wall Street Journal on radical Islamism. I'm not sure if this matters to anyone else, but it is blowing my f'ing mind and is perhaps the most FREEDARKO event of my life. To those unfamiliar with Siah (and Yeshua), an appropriate analogy would be like if you were growing up in 1968 and got really into the Velvet Underground banana album, and then the group disbanded and a few years later you found out Lou Reed was making a living as a famous sculptor for Madame Tussaud's wax museum on London. Ill.

At any rate, please listen to Siah: here, here, here , here, and here.

One last thing. The Recluse points to the hilarity of Bossip not knowing who the hell Rashad McCants is in this photo. Perhaps that's a little more tragic than hilarious.
























Freedarko will be returning to its regularly scheduled programming of politics and bullsh!t shortly.

American Treasure

Read Dr. LIC on Stuckey. Pray for Amir. But also stop, reverse gears, and help me free my mind from the nettles of inquiry that so currently ensnare it.

I asked this in comments sections, and no one answered. So courtesy of The Sporting Blog, here's the isolated video.



Thank you. Help!

Another thing: I've caught some hell this season, mostly from Celtics fans, for insisting that Garnett's less exciting now that he's less ostensibly insane, unchained, and limitless. During these playoffs, I've come to the conclusion that, as his outbursts become more and more sporadic, and thus more weighty and causal, he actually does start seeming like a madman. Before, it was a style, a tone, a non-stop conduit for strong feelings about basketball and life. He let it all out all the time, and damn it, if that looked nuts to the world, they just didn't see like he did.

Now, when he gets bug-eyed, smacks someone or something, or uses expletives like his own kind of play-by-play, it's troubling. Something set him off, and what comes out is, in its isolation and novelty, disturbing. If you only ever paid attention to Sheed or Stephen Jackson's tempers, you might feel the same way about them. But in each of their case, there's personality all the rest of the time. Garnett's personality used to be pure intensity. Now, these moments come across as flare-ups, a negative he can't contain. It's a guy at the office flipping out one day, not the prophet just waiting for the world to catch up with his message.

UPDATE: This is the best thing in the history of the universe.

That's the Name I Was Given

READ SHOALS' analysis of last night just below this post. I, on the other hand, will acknowledge that I didn't really watch the games yesterday because I'm prescient and I don't like to watch games that I don't like the outcomes of. Am more interested in this D'Antoni to the Knicks thing, because I might be the only person on the planet who thinks that it might work out perfectly. Look, the Knicks' players suck. I'm finally going to admit that. And no amount of fastbreaking will change that. But there are some important similarities between Mike D and the Knicks that bode well for the future.

They don't like to play defense. He doesn't like to coach defense.
They've never won anything. He hasn't really won anything either.
They're tremendously overpaid. He is tremendously overpaid.

All of this results in the perfect cocktail of something to prove mixed with a sense of entitlement that may give New York the exact type of swag they need. D'Antoni's rep as a coach players like is also important for facilitating the jettisoning of the Knicks' deadweight players. To put it simply, if you don't jibe with D'Antoni, it's YOUR FAULT, so leave. The only thing I really didn't like about Isiah's hateable-ness is that it gave his crappy players a free pass. There was too much attributional ambiguity. Oh, Zach Randolph has a bad attitude? Blame it on Isiah. Stephon Marbury is nuts? Must be because of Isiah. Eddy Curry is lazy you say? Isiah's fault again. For better or for worse, D'Antoni is so likeable that the players should feel a renewed sense of personal responsibility.



ON TO MORE IMPORTANT THINGS (taking the long road there). You know when you grow up "doing some sort of art." Say, rapping. If you do it for long enough, you reach a certain level of maturity where two important things happen: (1) You realize that you are actually now as smart or smarter than certain people "in that artform" that you formerly looked up to. Like, why would I look to Grouch & Eligh & Sixtoo for insight about life? I've had enough interesting life experience to know that this stuff isn't really that deep. And then (2) You realize that certain people are so good at the particular craft and you admire them so much, that you've actually just been a crappier version of (Posdnuos/Breezly Brewin/Andre3000,etc.) this whole time, and you need to do some serious soul-searching to do something that is specifically and originally YOU to really do good art.

Well, just as I've had these experiences on the music front, the same could be said for my "sportswriting." Similar to rolling my eyes at indie rappers' life insight, it's like, look, I've taken enough stats and methods courses over the past few years to know that John Hollinger's propaganda is essentially a lot of pseudoscience, and at a basic level inferring causation based on correlation. Had Hollinger been around when I was 13 years old, though, I probably would have thought I was reading like, the Steven Pinker of basketball. At the same time, there are those (an ever dwindling number) who get this shit so right, that it makes me rethink my whole agenda in this hoops blogging game. For example, prior to this past weekend, the passage below, from Bill Simmons in response to Ralph Wiley, during one of their legendary conversations, was probably my personal hoops-writing Pledge of Allegiance--the most important thing to me:

You asked why I love the NBA so much, and if it bothers me that some of my readers don't want me to read those columns as much. My feeling was always this: if you write about something passionately enough, and you know what you're talking about, I think most people will want to keep reading no matter the subject. Sometimes you can go too far -- like John McPhee writing about rocks -- but I think there are enough diehards out there, as well as people following the NBA on a rudimentary level who could be coaxed into following it more. So that's always been my hope. I would rather write about something I love than write about something I don't follow.


(Note: One of the biggest problems with the NBA is that there aren't enough quality writers involved. Think about baseball and all the wonderful writers that have tackled that sport -- Updike, Talese, Angell, Cramer, Halberstam, etc. -- along with the dozens and dozens of baseball books that come out every year. But the best NBA book ever was "Breaks of the Game," and that came out more than 20 years ago. In my case, I grew up reading Bob Ryan in the Globe -- his passion made me like basketball even more than I already did. He's always been the role model for me when writing about hoops, as well as for how to get away with a cheesy blazer and khaki pants that are two sizes too short on national TV.)


The biggest obstacle for the NBA has always been the black-white thing -- marketing a league full of mostly black players to a country filled with mostly white people who can afford the tickets. This almost killed the league in the late-'70s (detailed extensively in "Breaks of the Game") and reared its head in the post-MJ Era (and I'm not counting the Wizards years, because they never happened). I always thought Iverson's career was a fascinating litmus test. Here's someone who was clearly the most exciting player in the league from post-MJ through 2002, but he also represented everything that Generic White America hates about the NBA: Tatts, cornrows, in-your-face, loose cannon, the background to match. And I'm not sure how this dilemma is solved.


Yes, the NFL is the best product. Yes, baseball has the history. But I always feel like the NBA should be more popular than it is, and I think part of the reason is that enough quality people aren't writing about it. What other sport combines this much athleticism, drama and unintentional comedy? What other sport has Calvin Murphy's kids, Doctor J's sex tape, Mrs. Christie, Mark Cuban's Weblog, Barkley and Kenny making fun of Sam Cassell in code, the completely insane Ron Artest, J-Kidd trying to seduce the NBA trophy and everything else? Hot damn I love this game.


It still holds up 4 years later, and that was pretty much my inspiration for years, what made me tell my friend Pete in Berkeley in 2004 that I wanted to write a book of the type that Shoals, Recluse, Silverbird, Big Baby, and I just completed. To me, it was pretty much the pinnacle of encapsulating everything I wanted to say about basketball. Until I read this. And this. Many of you may have already seen these pieces (evidently there's one more coming today), but if you have not, drop your Sudoku puzzle, and take some time to read these insane interviews with Britt Robson. I really can't describe the level that this dude is on, and would prefer you just hear it from the man himself. I was lucky enough to grow up in Minneapolis and read his stuff in the City Pages, but it wasn't until I actually moved out of state that I became a regular reader.

Robson, to put it similarly to our friend Kelly Dwyer, is the next epoch. As many of you know has been the beat writer for the Timberwolves since forever, and is pretty much the sole reminder of the fact that Minnesota professional hoops doesn't end with Kevin Garnett. The guy wrote multi-thousand word tomes after every single Wolves game THIS PAST YEAR (can't think of anything more Free Darko than that), discussing the intricacies of Chris Richard's helpside defense and Ryan Gomes' confidence with Coen Bros-caliber intrigue. Just read the amount of truth and substance this guy is dropping and you will remember why you get out of bed in the morning. For me, it's time to reinvent myself.

In the Hour of Iffy

For my reactions to Suns/Lakers, go to The Sporting Blog.

One thing I left out: Everyone, including my girl, thought that Shaq looked thinner in the Phoenix whites. This despite the fact that black is supposed to have that effect. I think it was everything to do with the perception of the Suns as a small team, something that even the most casual observer has had hammered into his skull by now.

I am sick of the media saying that Chris Paul "will be a superstar." He's the best PG in the league. No question. I've been stuck on this idea lately that, from market value perspective, point guards are the new big men. Paul is living proof that, on the floor, they can be just as (pun intended) central to a team kicking ass. The Hornets are a funny bunch, but Paul is the MVP and single-handedly putting them where they are. And anyone who has doubted his FD-ness: A points, assists, steals triple-double is almost Josh Smith territory.

Finally, does anyone remember this memorable Dr. LIC/Billups conversation, about hip-hop and the NBA before the two became synonymous? To extend, or maybe preempt, the entire gist, kindly examine these two videos. One is an answer, one might be the Rosetta Stone: