Taking Care of Elephants

Jay Caspian Kang's wardrobe is provided by the Sam Cassell Assistant Coach collection at Macy's. He made his FD debut writing about Jeremy Lin. You can reach him via twitter: @maxpower51.

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In the above interview with Steven A. Smith, when asked to identify other players with heart, Allen Iverson, the league’s vanguard of heart, comes up with the following names: Shaq, Lebron, T-Mac, Larry Hughes and Vince Carter.

It’s a puzzling list, to say the least. Have there been four players in the past decade who have been more questioned for their lack of heart? Who has more playoff failures than T-Mac? How many times have you watched some red-faced talking head eviscerate Larry Hughes for his lack of effort? What about all the Shaq fat jokes and the slow swing of public opinion that has cast him as a gregarious, lazy, destructive opportunist?

This weekend, Shoals asked why we feel the need to monetize the performance of certain athletes into moral lurcre—why are we unable to see ourselves in Vince Carter’s inconsistency, in T-Mac’s flashes of apathy, in how Larry Hughes and Lamar Odom deal with crippling family tragedies? Why cannot we see the ups and downs of an athlete as the appropriate metaphor? Why, for God’s sake, when we discuss “heart,” do we equate it with an inhuman desire to win at all costs? Does Galactus, indomitable eater of worlds, lead the universe in heart?

Iverson, unlike his fans and detractors, must view his fellow player as someone very much like himself and not as a phantasmal projection of his own insecurity and pride. In his mind, then, the word heart must mean something very different from what it means to a public who can only view him through the lens of his play on the court and what the media decides to do with him. Throughout the interview with Steven A. Smith, Iverson discusses coming from nothing and making it to where he is today. He repeatedly defines heart, not in terms of performance on the basketball court, but rather as a man’s ability to fight and scrap against a world that longs for his downfall. Scoring thirty in a playoff game and scowling for the cameras might fool the fans into thinking you have heart, but in Iverson’s estimation, players are people and performance on the court is not the only way to measure a man.

Perhaps, instead of focusing only on what happens in a game, he sees the man, himself, with all his baggage and failings, as the metaphor. Within that equation, heart means something entirely different than the ratio of shots he hits in the waning seconds of a playoff game.

Is it any wonder, then, that he chooses Vince, who, in a seven game playoff series against Iverson’s Sixers in 2001, scored 35, 30 and 50 points in Toronto’s three wins, but still carries the label of being a mercurial and uncommitted loser? Nobody in the league is more reviled than Vince, not even Artest, who has his stable of devotees. And yet, Vince plays on, despite the persistent and nearly universal scorn. Maybe Iverson sees a bit of himself in Vince's choice to keep playing amidst a growing consensus that has cast him as a selfish, lazy waster of gifts.

While there is certainly an argument to be made that Vince is getting paid to play, the discussion is not about Vince, at all, really, but more about how Iverson, a maligned millionaire, finds inspiration in another maligned millionaire who fell from a similar state of grace. And what about Larry Hughes, a former teammate who was excoriated by certain media folk for the sin of allowing his grief over his little brother’s death affect his play on the court? How could Iverson, who defines his life in a fighter's terms, not marvel at the heart of someone who suffered a tragic loss and still kept scrapping, even when the world had sent in its indifferent, and oftentimes cruel verdict?

Shortly after naming those names, Iverson goes on to tell Steven A. Smith, in so many words, that when you ascend into the throne of NBA superstar, the public, fueled by the media, salivates at any chance to cut you down into something that can fit their moral and economic agenda. He says, “If you don’t want to go through what I went through, being the bad guy in the NBA and all that, be fake, then.”

His calculus is as clear and as contradictory as a koan: In Iverson's mind, the metaphor is catastrophically wrong. Those who are said to have heart, in fact, do not. To have heart, the judging public, at some point, must disparage your heart. (Practice?) Only from that compromised and conditional position, can you earn real heart.

French Furniture

Sportsfans,

I feel so old media, the way every time I pick up my pointer finger to start typing, it’s already been covered, re-covered, and thoroughly digested. Nonetheless, allow me to ponder some recent events.

Richard Jefferson.

Amazing deal for the Spurs. AND they got DeJuan Blair (whose name my brother and I were calling every time Stern stepped to the podium for picks 19 through 30). Now, this comment may bring Brickowski out of retirement, but I have to wonder how much of the Spurs’ “genius” is simply taking advantage of other teams’ stupidity. Like,

1) You don’t NOT take a chance on DeJuan Blair’s knees if you’re a non-lottery team in a pretty weak draft.

2) If you are John Hammond, don't you at least have to throw in Charlie Bell's contract or get a draft pick or SOMETHING to let your fans know you are asleep at the wheel? I'm so f'ing sick of the 'alluring 2010 offseason 'I could vomit up fishbones. Beyond the top three 2010 FAs on this list (Bosh, LBJ, Wade--the former of which are not going anywhere anyway), is there ANY body that you would want your team to throw Rashard Lewis money at? Most of these guys have are gonna be old or have a history of injuries. And any now-monetarily satiated star who is slightly appealing (e.g. Dirk) isn't going to be looking to play in Milwaukee or Minnesota...they're gonna be looking to go somewhere to get a ring.

In sum, the Spurs are now better than the Nuggets and a hair worse than the Lakers, who are right now the best team in the West.

Blake Griffin

Not much to say here, just wanted to make the prediction that he will be better than Durant and Beasley. Probably Carmelo too. Seems to be the first forward since LeBron to come into the league with a legit NBA frame. I'm sure B-Diddy will break out his good legs for this season. Am excited.

Ricky Rubio

First off, as a Wolves fan, I'm angry. This is personal-not-business. The draft has left me with a clawed-at scalp, and a head full of worries, one of which is that Ty Lawson will haunt us for years to come. On Rubio, I want to give sincere thanks to Canis Hoopus for writing this so I don't have to. Everyone take a second to go read it. No, seriously, take a look at it...Now that that's over with, let's talk about another angle on how this story is being covered/manufactured/facilitated. You know it's bad when you have to rely on Jay Mariotti to land the few big punches and point to what is the critical issue here. It's race. In his essential FCKYOU to the dream of so many inner city kids and farm boy hayseeds, Ricky Rubio is being coddled, practically ENCOURAGED by ESPN to seek a trade, to make demands, to act like he has played one goddam nanosecond of American ball.

Mariotti brings up Eli Manning and John Elway. Good start, but they (a) had college resumes to back up their trade demands, and (b) ended up talking the talk. What about Jamarcus Russell, Cedric Benson...how about Steve Francis? You think they got this sort of treatment when they made their childish demands? Hell no. And they were already proven commodities in the US!

I mean, Rubio skipped out on the Wolves first press conference. Can you imagine if TO skipped out on the Bills voluntary workouts! That would have been news! Oh wait, it was! What Rubio is doing with his passive/aggressive trade angling and failure to commit to the Wolves is as bad as Kobe/Shaq/Marbury/Cassell/etc. trade demands...except it's WORSE. He is an unproven commodity and he is shitting on the American Dream.

Thanks ESPN/athletes for keeping mid-market teams hostage!

Shaquille O’Neal

...which brings me to Shaq, or instead LeBron. Talk about keeping mid-market teams hostage, and that is LeBron's daily operation. Instead of committing to Cleveland once and for all, he forces Danny Ferry's shaky hand to getting the Big Situation Room, who at this point is simply a coach-killing token that allows Ferry to say, "Look Bron! Look how much we want to keep you around! We got a top 50 player for you!" Getting Shaq is about as good as any other Danny Ferry move: admirable on paper, questionable during playoff time, always the scapegoat after the Cavs are ousted.

I am also pissed (on behalf of Cavs fans) for how much this is a gut reaction to losing out to Dwight Howard in particular (with Shaq, oddly, poised to be playing the role of Dwight-Howard-stopper). Did they forget that the reason they lost was because Turkoglu and Lewis got ridiculously hot, and Mo Williams forgot to show up every other game?

A logical response would be to attain more shooters because in this day and age, LeBron effectively IS Shaq. Nah, eff that. He is a better Shaq than Shaq. He occupies space in the lane and can attract double teams (which Shaq no longer can), and is a better passer than Shaq. How about Ferry gives Milwaukee a call and see if Hammond wants to complete that rebuilding project by dumping Michael Redd?

Too much blood has been spilled on this topic already, but I had to say my piece.

Kevin Love

Now I'm as much of a hater on Twitter's media coverage as there. I hate the Time cover, the slacktivism behind thinking we're doing anything on Twitter to aid the Iran situation, the smug "look at our bourgeoise generation talking about talking about talking about" angle to every trend piece on the topic of Twitter, but I have to be real: K-Love’s Twitter is changing my life, or at least the way I follow sports. I swore I would never “follow” a celebrity, but when he aired the McHale news, I gave it a shot. And now... well, given my Wolves’ allegiance, I mean this is like watching Twin Peaks and being able to get a phone call from Dale Cooper every now and then to see what he’s thinking. Incredible stuff.

O Darkest Night

Below please find some amazing links, and the latest podcast.

-Earlier posts here, on draft fashion psychoanalysis and important details culled from past telecasts.

-My virulent, FD-friendly, reaction to the Shaq trade.

-Joey, after being crucified for his NY-centrism, has decided to change horses and look to the Wolves that could be.

-On the latest FD Presents: The Disciples of Clyde NBA Podcast, Dan, The Recluse, Eric (Ty Keenan), and myself attempt to talk about the draft, and instead spend almost 20 minutes trying to say something about the Bucks. Performance at its finest.



Songs:

Soundgarden - “Outshined”
What Made Milwaukee Famous - “Resistance St.”
Gang Starr - “Just to Get a Rep”
Deerhoof - “Whither the Invisible Birds?”
Man or Astroman? - “Principles Unknown”
Peanut Butter Wolf and Charizma - “Devotion ‘92″

If you want to settle down and make a serious commitment, try iTunes and the XML feed.

When Stations Shift, You Find Your Own

Not that I think it's my God-given duty to size up the Finals and decide who's up, who's down, but you've got to admit that Lakers/Magic does present a certain number of curious proposition. For one, these two are neither mismatched nor equals. It's like they exist in parallel universes. The Lakers, as we all know, as flushed to the gills with ability, but only periodically harness it all. The Magic, well, we didn't realize it until recently, but so are they. And they bring it on the regular. Does that make Orlando overachievers, Los Angeles underachievers, and no one but the Cavs the underdogs? The Magic's has been a season of peaks and valleys, hitting their stride, then losing Nelson, then picking up steam again, then hitting a wall earlier in the playoffs when Howard's identity came into question and Turkoglu was hurt. And now, they're riding high, so high, again. The Lakers? Friday was the first time all playoffs they've looked like the Lakers we expected to see come and visiti pestilence upon the postseason. Now you tell me: Which is inconsistency, which on a voyage of self-discovery and perpetual adjustment?

What's more, while this series doesn't seem to have STAR BATTLE written all over it, it will certainly challenge the "nobody digs Goliath, ya dig?" axiom of the modern NBA. Because, simply put, Howard is love and lightness, Kobe the darkest side of Jordan, the least ecstatic aspects of his game, streamlined and boiled down to something potent, metallic, and kind of smelly. That's not to say that Kobe's still the man we love to hate, just that he'll never be easy to love—in much the same way that Chamberlain, and even Shaq, found themselves troubled by.

Here's some fragments from a piece I wrote this spring on Shaq for a certain well-known web magazine. This was from draft #3, and apparently wasn't snappy enoigh. So sorry, guys. In any case, I think it's pertinent here for describing just how far Howard is indeed with "the new Shaq," in terms of natural magnetism and ability to worm his way into our hearts without making us feel engorged or cloyed by absurdity:

O'Neal wouldn't be the first athlete always angling for the spotlight, or looking for ingenious forms of self-promotion. But compared to, say, the whip-smart expressiveness of Muhammad Ali in his prime, O'Neal is at once light-hearted and uncomfortably deliberate. He excels at spoken spectacle, assigning himself absurdist nicknames (my favorites: The Diesel, The Big Aristotle, and Shaqovic) and making off-color jokes about opponents, like his disparaging reference to rivals "the Sacramento Queens."

From the beginning Shaq saw himself as an entertainer, which explains 1993's platinum rap album Shaq Diesel and film roles ranging from the 1996's Kazaam, in which Shaq played a genie, to 1994's Blue Chips, an underrated look at corruption in college sports that starred Nick Nolte. The more he does, the more control he exerts over his image. And with good reason. In the fraternity of superlative NBA big men, O'Neal stands alone in his non-stop levity. Wilt Chamberlain, Bill Russell, Kareem Abdul-Jabar, Patrick Ewing, and peer Tim Duncan, to name a few, were pensive and aloof—and often criticized for it. O'Neal has seemingly spent his entire career trying to break the mold, replacing the towering, faceless Goliath with a hip-hop Paul Bunyan. Shaquille O'Neal may have been Joe Frazier or (young) George Foreman on the court, but preferred the garrulous, daft Ali role off of it.



However, this disconnect comes with a price. Shaq's behavior can get downright ugly when his ego, image, or brand are threatened, since this could send him plummeting into in the annals of large, bitter, awkward freaks. For evidence of this, look no further than the litany of "sidekick" guards who have proved essential to his success: Penny Hardaway in Orlando, Kobe in Los Angeles, and Dwyane Wade in Miami. In the post-Jordan NBA, smaller, more dynamic players are the unquestioned center of attention. Style-wise, they're the Ali's, with inventive games that suggest a richness of personality. Shaq, always the talker in these relationships, always casts himself as the alpha dog, a font of charisma whose dominant play was a matter of fact. At the same time, in each case the other guy was emerging as one of the most exciting, inventive players in the league, leading O'Neal to turn cold and toward them, and however incidentally, move on to another team. [I think you all know how Shaq fell over, and then turned on, Penny, Kobe, and Wade].

Nothing sums up this paradox more than the mural on the bus Shaq brought to an LSU game in 2007: some sort of gangster super-summit, where Shaq presides over Scarface, Tony Soprano, and Vito Corlene, among others. Hilarious, but also quite sinister. Not coincidentally, during his time with the Heat, Shaq was fond of an analogy that cast his Hardaway as Fredo, Kobe as Sonny, and Wade as Michael. Coppola's films and The Sopranos have been defanged by their absorption into pop culture. But watch those movies from start to finish, and you'll realize just how unsettling they really are.

Heavy, huh? Man, been waiting for a while to get that out. I have to say, though, that this series might explode this paradigm, and perhaps summarily frustrate Shaq's grand mission in life. Despite O'Neal's attempt to undermine Howard, or Howard's obvious inferiority as a pure center—perhaps one of the reasons this slippage is possible—Dwight, with his boyish good looks and effortless acrobatics, is that lovable big men Shaq never could be. Yes, we can debate for days when he is in fact a big man, or just a bigger Amare. But the Superman has stuck there without any sense that we're being forced into embracing his might (like how Superman really could have destroyed the world whenever he wanted). On the other hand, Kobe, while he remains the epitomal post-Jordan off-guard, we all know that this trappings of his game have become so methodical, his aura so admirably bleak, that it's transformed the dream-like "as an explosive shooting guard, I will get rings" of Jordan into a optimization of the position so that it embraces as much of the big man rigor as is possible. LeBron is unstoppable, quasi-religious. Kobe is so professional that he's always adjusting, a character who is about as Terminator-like as guards can possibly get. Like when they made the evil robot a hot lady for T3.

That's not to say that Kobe lacks charisma. He has kind of reached that rare, glare-laden apex where, no matter what his game has evolved into over the years, or what its finer points are, fans respond to him as a showman. You and I know, though, that the man is probably replacing his blood, or grafting metal onto his spine, in hopes of turning this positional role into something with the certainty, and even the purposeful vacancy, of the big man. Howrad is so young, it's hard to gauge where he's really headed. But for now, he's a hunk of muscle unstoppable down low who is also so easy to love. And it's Kobe whose human drives and expressions of self seem more of a technicality or, even to supporters like myself, an afterthought in his grand pursuit of basketball perfection. That's not to say he's totally inhuman, on or off the court, but the personality of his position (and by extension, the Good Kobe that has so many fans) is no longer a restriction on how he looks to put together grade-A efforts.



And to turn briefly to one more WTF about this series: Does this tell us shit about the future of the game? The Lakers are by no means a reasonable template for success. Top to bottom, that team is loaded. In ways new and old. What other team can boast one of the league's most promising pure centers, as well as its second-best Euro, and a post-Garnett weirdo—all who may or may not figure prominently into the game-plan on any given night? It's almost like a brief history of the last eight years of the NBA, all on one team. Except that participation by all is optional, or maybe selectively minimal. Put simply, other teams have no chance at copying this one, and that's without even getting into Kobe's embattled, but persistent, standing among the league's elite.

The Magic offer a far more interesting case. They have this big man who is both more and less than the past. There's a chance they stumbled into it, and that the tandem of Lewis and Turkoglu are both essential and came as a surprise. And when healthy, they have an All-Star point guard. This is old worship of height, plus the age of the point guard, plus a kind of post-Euro Sudoku puzzle that only master coach SVG could make sense of in such a non-obvious fashion (and, as Kevin Pelton has pointed out, this team would suck if deployed in obvious fashion). I also pick up a distinctly Pistons-meets-Suns vine int he way Lee, Pietrus, and even Reddick are used, though maybe now I'm just laying it on thick. In short, this team has everything but a Kobe or LeBron, which is a really fortuitous spot to be in. And chances are, any other squad with this roster would screw it up. So we might be looking at an utter singularity here that both bridges and invalidates the entire ferment of conventional basketball wisdom, past and present. In the end, it comes down to the twist you put on it. Traditions and trends, new and old, can tell you some basics, but past that, you're on your own. The question is, what does it take for a team like the Magic to be absorbed, as the Suns were? The Warriors certainly weren't . .

Orlando Magic, just keep being yourselves. History will sort out the rest. As will the results of this series, incidentally.

FreeDarko X-Files #Ur-0000000001

No need for much introduction here. If you're a Polvo fan, and like the NBA, you probably read this site; you've also probably heard rumors that Shaq once attended one of their shows. Today, we can say with certainty that this did in fact happen; what follows is a description of that night's events, based on stuff Dave Brylawski told myself and, in a separate conversation, my pal Wingo. Sometimes, urban legends simply must come true.

It's 1994, and Polvo's playing in Orlando. The venue is on the main strip of bars where everyone's nightlife is. Dave can't recall if he started talking smack about Zo's superiority before or after he realized Shaq was in the place. This happened when a bunch of audience members started murmuring and craning their neck to get a look at "the silhouette of a 7'1'' man in a Kangol standing in the back, arms crossed." Anyway, as anyone who saw Polvo back in the day knows, Dave's sports banter from the stage was an important feature of their live shows; he was a big Hornets fan, and Orlando and Charlotte "were rivals in the way only struggling Southern expansion teams can be," so it was only natural he'd mouth off about O'Neal/Mourning. It's also worth pointing out that one saw athletes around Chapel Hill all the time, so to Dave the situation didn't (relatively speaking) seem that weird, or potentially awkward, at the time.



Turns out it was Shaq's 23rd birthday, and he was celebrating by wandering the strip with only Brian Shaw in tow. No entourage whatsoever. The two of them ended up staying for all of Polvo's set; Dave was kind of embarassed, and felt bad for giving Shaq a hard time on his birthday, so afterwards he went up to O'Neal and apologized. Shaq was super-friendly and cool with the whole thing. When the band's tour manager asked O'Neal what he thought of the show, Shaq "looked at Brian Shaw and said something like 'they were slam dancing, but I think I scared 'em.'" It remains a mystery exactly what he meant by "slam dancing," since Dave says none took place.

Dave calls this "one of my favorite Polvo memories," and I think it's safe to say that, for the rest of us, it's absolutely mind-blowing to find out this is true. Now, if only someone could get Shaq's account of the evening. . .

In case you don't know what Polvo sounded like around this time:

When All Glare Fizzled

If you watched last night's Suns/Spurs welt-farm, you felt the omen. The Suns have not only died as an idea; they've even ceased to matter, vestigially, as the nut-case whose sober child grew into a prince. That team was just plain trounced and flummoxed, by a Spurs powerhouse that, were Phoenix the powerhouse they'd supposedly become, wouldn't have had it so glibly.

And now, D'Antoni's leaving town. We can argue for days about who defined the Suns, but it comes down to D'Antoni, Nash, and either Marion or Amare. There's probably some sort of father/son/ghost thing going on here, but if you had to pick the one essential element, it would no doubt be Coach. Before Phoenix, Nash was breezy and occasionally possessed; here, he flourished as the practical hand of D'Antoni's vision. Amare and Marion were symbolically important, and made the contours all the more fantastic. In the end, though, it was Mike's team.

So while we always heard that D'Antoni pushed for Shaq—a betrayal of self? bottom line over idealism? function over form?—he both pushed himself out of the picture and gave himself the high road for exit with that deal. The night they drove old Phoenix down might have shown that Nash was finally fading—where was his venom down the stretch? But that was no longer a team that needed an idiosyncratic vision or direction. Go ahead and buy Larry Brown from Charlotte. Big man, slowed PG, scoring machine, shooters.



It was only fitting that D'Antoni would exit now, since Kerr and Sarver have all but robbed that team of its original god-head. Now they can be the brains, having underestimated how far-reaching D'Antoni's influence was across that operation. It was coaching, and personnel, and making certain players, like Diaw, what they might otherwise never have been. You see dictator-ship, I see the old-style guru, or the kind of visionary to whom smart people defer and let run a little amuck.

What now for D'Antoni? Please don't let it be the Bulls. The Knicks would be no less painful. Remember, he inherited a young, inexpensive mess of a team, then got a chance to bring in Nash and let the gossamer empire rise. Both of these teams have clumps of intractable personnel who, frankly, will only ever give us a rough approximation of D'Antoni's idealism. And maybe, because he's only had this one big moment under the coaching sun, I like to think he's got that much integrity, or that irrepressible an ego.

I nominate Miami. Riles can't be bothered to buy the team toothbrushes anymore. Arm D'Antoni with old pal Marion, and what's left of Wade, and either Beasley or Rose. And oh yeah, that Wright guy could fit in well. Watch them instantly create a tiny temple in the East and then set their sights Westward?



But for now, let's admit it: An era has passed, and the team that created this site has ceased to matter. It's only fitting, then, that amidst all the "West is a letdown" chatter we're hearing a new generation definitively assert itself. Nash and Kidd are dead, long live Paul and Williams. Dwight Howard might be better than Shaq in his prime by the end of this summer. And while the odds are still against Atlanta marching on, they've got the kind of subversive, utterly flabbergasting vehemence that makes you think change might be in the air. Or at least rearing its bejeweled, strange, and confounded head when, with us all now adrift, it's so badly needed.

So stay still. Breathe deep. And remember, tonight is for everything. Everything we've lost, and everything that's still yet to hit us down the road.

State-Based Sneezers

I feel like I'm going to puke, and I'm really busy. This book is getting hectic, and I say that both for the sympathy vote (what vote?) and as a teaser.

About Suns/Warriors: Amare is still the best undersized center in the world. Against a team like Golden State, the Suns can go small, use Diaw where once Marion existed, and pray that defense gets lost in the shuffle. It just doesn't seem that Shaq gives them the best chance to win in that kind of situation. Against the Spurs, on the other hand, they go big from the outset.

I just wonder, though, if it can really be all that simple. If this team's going with the dual-consciousness approach—and after a game last night, it's hard to imagine them not doing this—then don't they have to establish some kind of hierarchy, or overlap, or intersection, of the two? Let's face it, while Shaq has been active, he still impedes Nash's natural flow. It becomes a paint-centric team, where the lane's a fort as opposed to a fly-over. With time, you have to assume that the two worlds will draw closer to each other, and yet "opposites attract" doesn't always make for harmony. I always thought that said Paula Abdul song was about rough sex and flying dishes.

I'm assuming Nash will ultimately adjust, and look right playing with either approach. But you have to wonder what's better: To make these two different "looks" separate but equal, or view Shaq as a weapon of necessity. Given how much of a role psychology already plays on that team—Diaw's inability to produce off the bench, for one—it seems like most obvious basketball solution might end up corroding this team from the inside out. Does Shaq really want to be seen as a guy who shows up only when the fun stops, the cops show up, and someone needs rescuing from the clink?

As I was saying about Houston this week, I think identity is very important to teams. In that case, it was how teams can rally around, or be subconsciously set into motion by, a very particular stylistic ideal. Here, we might see that working in the negative: How Phoenix defines itself could end up adversely affecting some player's brains. The human mind is the ultimate liability.

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:

Still, And Again, After All These Years

Thank god for the Science Channel's "Beyond T-Rex" and tranquilizers, because I'm having a rough internet day. You may not have noticed, but I am both a megalomaniac and really, really, insecure. So it's no fun for me to sit here and, on various sites, be called a "hipster jewboy" obsessed with Kobe's semen, a hack who doesn't know shit about Mike Brown, and a modern day White Negro. But now that I've settled down a little, I thought I'd spend a second on what matters: Lakers/Suns, tonight.

I couldn't be more stoked for this games. Nate Jones was at Lakers/Hawks last night, and told me that Kobe's swagger is out of this world (outdated rap reference on my part: -1 for DOWN), and Lamar Odom's typically wondrous stat line shows how valuable he still is (-1 for my inability to understand the triangle). I've said it before, but the Marion-less Suns seem oddly revitalized. Unburdened, maybe? Drinking the Shaq kool-aid? Regardless, I'd be counting down hours even if this weren't the unveiling of the Great Shaq Experiment.

I suspect we won't get a real feel for the New Suns tonight. Shaq will play a little, look out of joint and occasionally in the way, and leave a lot of people wondering if he's actually relevant. But he'll also provide some buzz, some intangibles, and yes, some physicality that, for the Suns, has so far been just about Amare's dunks. It may be an indirect, almost mystical effect, but he'll impact the feel of the game. While he's greatly diminished as a player, Shaq's still Shaq, and it's not like him to take a backseat. On the level of pure ego, O'Neal is all about his hustle (-1 for rote slang). That's annoyed me about him in the past, and there's certainly some opportunism going on here. But if Shaq can reassert himself as a force, even if it's just in a Willis Reed-like, one play that sets the parameters of meaning, way, I'll be wowed. Talk about myth as on-court style.



And because I secretly really just want every to get along (-1 for hackneyed reference to race relations), I'm also looking forward to this latest chapter in Shaq/Kobe. When they had their Bill Russell-brokered detente, there was a definite sense that distance played a major part. The Lakers weren't going anywhere, Kobe had his individual glory on lock, and Shaq had moved on in grand form (even if that was already slipping away). But suddenly, both are back in the spotlight, key to the still-unfolding championship picture.

Let's take a chance here: These are the two most important players in the Western Conference. Kobe's finally got the team to contend, and Shaq's expected, on a variety of levels, to take the Suns over the top. They're no longer direct rivals—no way Shaq gets an MVP vote, even if the Suns win every single game from here on out. And yet this makes whatever bad blood, or fraternal strife, is left all the more fascinating. It's no longer Shaq/Kobe, it's clearly Suns/Lakers. The two can't be directly compared any more, but this has given way to an even more intense—and more universal, and less tiring—rivalry. Both are older and wiser than before, and yet here's where their butting heads means more than ever.

This is where we'll see the real depth of feeling that binds and repels the two stars. Not in bitchy, gossip-fueled feuds that diverge from their relationship on the court, but bringing it all back to where their love/hate relationship started: On the court, where they were the two most important players in the NBA. Now, they've come full circle. They just happen to be on opposing teams this time around.

They Aren't Who We Thought We Were Waiting For

And with that, the dream died. I heard Obama say in every way imaginable tonight that a change was gonna come, and yet he left out the part where, for the NBA, that train stopped hard. I don't know what Kerr is thinking, or particularly care. I guess this team could be tough for the playoffs, if Shaq's got one last run left in him. But this site could give a fuck less about that. Tonight, Steve Kerr trampled on the ideals that sustain us. Politics as usual. Grind-it-out big man ball, no matter how compromised the giant. One last shot as a mechanistic ploy, not an appeal to the gods, faith, and beauty's left-hand zephyr.

If the Suns were going to win a title, it should've been on their own terms. They should've thrown themselves back in it again, knowing that they'd brought something to this game, something that could beat back others. It would've taken a little luck, or a particularly torrid run, but that's what their whole style was predicated on. Now, we're back in the realm of positivism. Rotting positivism. As far as the eye can see.

I'll be burning alive in a big pile of wheat.

UPDATE: Maybe, just maybe, I can help us all cope.