Abjection At The Speed Of Sound

Just listen to the music, man. It is kind of like Tony Conrad, but not, and also kind of like I thought Coltrane was when all I did was read about him. It's also reasonably pertinent to this quick bit of posting I have to take care of on these parts.

Because Twitter has gone altogether useless, and there's no such thing as having weighed in recently enough, or collective memory, or any kind of cleanser that doesn't involve a roof and flames, here are my weekend's Big Basketball Stories: Tracy McGrady and Derrick Rose. T-Mac, longtime FD favorite (for you, McGrady, I would throw Vince Carter under a thousand buses), and Derrick Rose, a player-in-process on a very good team. Oh, and once upon a time, I put forth a challenge to Rose, and now a city wants to burn me and throw me into brine because of it. At the Sloan Conference for Fighting Your Family, McGrady was unmasked by former GM Daryl Morey and coach Jeff Van Gundy as the equivalent of Sports Betting gone bad. You can read the low-down here, courtesy of Dan Devine, but I just had to jump in the mix (if I hadn't enough already, via more immediate forms of communication).

Dan ended his report from the panel with a WTF DUDEZ—as in, there seemed to be a certain amount of willful panel blindness to how great McGrady was when he was on. Zach Lowe also gave us a glimpse at just how advanced T-Mac could get when things were going his way. My problem? McGrady's career wasn't that of Stromile Swift or Tyrus Thomas; his injuries were of the more vague, debilitating variety; there was obviously a psychological aspect to his rise, fall, rise, fall, and fall fall again that defied an easy "he had it all and blew it" narrative. If McGrady was the NBA's Natural, we should not bemoan his lack of worth ethic or practice hours—lots of players are lazy-ish, and last I checked, Bill Russell was the king of hoops, and he hated to run around empty gyms—but acknowledge his career for what it was: an experience, for him and us, at once flawed and mystical. There was no reason for McGrady to have been as good as he was, as advanced, especially if he tried so little and failed to show the discipline of, say, Chuck Hayes or Shane Battier.

McGrady wasn't just bigger, stronger, faster, or more athletic. He felt and moved through the game like few before or since. You want to discard that because Gladwell told you to? In front of a bunch of writers? Fine, I guess. Just don't pretend that there's not a host of biases, or even limitations, brought in by the panelists, or that anyone (including McGrady) will ever be happy with how it all turned out. Malcolm Gladwell furnished a magic number, Jeff Van Gundy brought his own wildly particular views about how basketball, and basketball teams, should work to the table, and Morey also has an agenda—however secretive—that he brings to this kind of player assessment. Could McGrady have been better, played longer? Yes, but he paid dues in Toronto, and was effectively falling apart by the time he arrived in Houston. Was it all practice? I should stop asking so many questions before I get too many answers in return. To me, McGrady will remain a tragic figure, perhaps one of his own making. But to use him as a poster child for wasted potential is like lamenting ... fuck it, go see that Woodmans documentary. No, not the Kevin Bacon molesting kids one.

There's a way, though, to have both lived up to the hype while still falling victim to it. The holes are far less important than having gotten there at all; the ending seems all but inevitable, and not because there just wasn't enough elbow grease involved. For what it's worth, LeBron James seems far more worthy of these criticisms than McGrady. Already a far better player, to be sure, any way you want to measure it. And yet T-Mac always seemed fully comfortable in his own skin—that is, for those few seasons when everything was intact. LeBron still has way too many "if only" moments. That's the value of practice. McGrady? I don't know, would practice have exorcised his demons, cleaned up his injuries, and allowed him to get his head into the game again. Born to lose, I guess. Piece of shit, fabulous performer, both at once. If he need a book title, I will be spending all morning smashing those two phrases together in tight proximity.

***

If you would like me to compare Derrick Rose and T-Mac, do so yourself. Rose works his ass off, I will say this, and when a team forces him to show that aspect of his game—resourceful, indomitable, and fearless without sacrificing a bit of dynamism—all my previous criticisms fall away. I don't like it when the game is too easy for anyone. Otherwise, for the viewer without a particular-colored bit of cloth wrapped round his face, the game can stagnate. You may be familiar with that time I bemoaned, in order 1) the classification of Rose as a true point guard by the national media; 2) the unreasonable example he set for more limited scoring guards like [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] and some other thing that I probably didn't say but made people angry anyway. Oh, I said that I wanted Rose to turn into Dwyane Wade. Sunday's game made me happy, and sorry, I'm not jumping on the bandwagon. It was brilliant basketball, where a player was substantially challenged and thus had to fight for his comfort zone, or pull off nearly impossible feats of toughness and flight to get the two that usually comes so easy to him. Even that playmaking stuff ... Rose showed that, somewhere between trying to run an offense and dishing at the last-second, he can set the table for others without leaving them on pins and needles.

The "Fuck You Bethlehem Shoals" game against the Spurs was fun, but Chicago's win over those pussy-dicked Heat weasels was everything I had ever hoped to see from Rose. I could care less whether you think I'm back-pedaling, or should have been here all along. Players met with obstacles are either spurred to new heights or fall flat. Practice hours aside, and for now, ignoring the "loser" tag, what made McGrady great and infuriating is that he was either in that zone, or practically moribund. For Rose, it's a next gear, or a plateau, or some other cliche having to do with man-sports and engines. Given the way this season, and his career, are going, I fully expect Rose to look much different in 2011-12 than in this MVP candidate campaign. That's a wowzer, isn't it?

Really, what I want someone to do is bury me for viewing Rose through a lens of pure aesthetics. Why no attack, or at least conclusions about, his personality, motivations, etc? The Rose-as-robot trope is nothing new in Chicago, nor is it particularly interesting. It doesn't seem to have warped him like it did Kobe, in large part because Kobe was a stormy individual who decided that inhumanity was the way to go, like Buddhist retreats for pill heads. Maybe I'm just not ready to read deeper, or between the lines, with Rose. But with that, though, comes an understanding that I'm still expecting him to go higher and higher as a basketball player. Is that grouchy and mean to a city in need? I guess. But I remember Tracy McGrady. It's the very least that this young Bulls guard, and a team seemingly built for long-term success, could do for us all.

Don't Send Me No Letters

I know you're all sick of my shilling for FanHouse, but I have your number. Ziller and I now have a regular column. Today's romp discusses McGrady's exile and how it had to be; ref bias, but not like you think; more and more Positional Revolution, including a nod to Total Football I swore I wouldn't make; and a soccer-based race for the top at the bottom.

The Works airs every morning, no matter what happens in between. As its name suggests, it is somewhere between a mess of ice cream toppings and a drug delivery device.

Also, neglect thee not to read Jack Hamilton on the Celtics, Boston, and whiteness.

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.

(skip forward to 31:52)

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.

A New Shade of Awesome

Last Thursday was a day, wasn't it? The trade dust finally settled. The Bulls traded their former future (Tyrus Thomas) for a new one (the salary-cap void he left behind). They also traded two saviors, both Thomas, who was once on some next-level can't-miss shit, and John Salmons, who arrived last year in time to scare Boston and conjure a false vision of the future. The Suns hung onto Amare now that he's been scared straight (no George Bluth). The Rockets got Kevin Martin. The Blazers got the current Marcus Camby while they wait for the better one to get healthy. The Bucks might have made the playoffs. The Celtics united the world's best shooter with its best dunker. The Mavs and Cavs basked in the glow that comes from helping the Wizards destroy themselves and effectively exile anyone ever infected with Gilbertitis.

And, of course, the Knicks completed their science project. After careful consideration, so many ingredients thrown around, and a concluding bang, the smoke in the lab cleared and the Knicks had actually managed to get two-star far enough under the salary cap.

It took Donnie Walsh 22 months to sell off and swap out the assets he was left to administer after the franchise entered existential bankruptcy under Isiah Thomas. The Knicks sent Darko Milicic to Minnesota for Brian Cardinal. Then, they traded Nate Robinson for a player somehow even more grating and circus-worthy, Eddie House, along with two expiring contracts from prep heroes J.R. Giddens and Bill Walker. After that, things got crazy. As you know, the Brickers wound up with Tracy McGrady, a personal victory because never before has my favorite team employed my favorite player. New York also acquired Sergio Rodriguez. The cost was bizarre: Houston got Jared Jeffries, Jordan Hill, a Top-1 protected draft pick in 2011 (Houston can swap picks with New York), and a top-5 protected pick in 2012. Appending New York's McGrady acquisition to the Kevin Martin trade meant that Rodriguez and Larry Hughes swapped roster spots.



About the cost: When Isiah signed Jared Jeffries to a bad contract, I threw up in my mouth. When New York drafted Jordan Hill, I threw my phone against a fence. I wasn't upset to see either leave, though I don't understand why any team wants Jeffries. (Shoals claims that he fits in with Houston's phalanx of longer wing defenders, falling in line behind Battier and Ariza.) Trading Hill so early into his career might seem shortsighted, or tantamount to an embarrassing admission of error, but the latter is a good thing. The Knicks should, indeed, be ashamed as they start Chris Duhon but read about Brandon Jennings and Tywon Lawson. Marinate in that failure. Never forget! The 2011 draft pick "protection" is goofy. Retaining the rights to the top overall selection is like having the pick protected against alien invasion, which seems only slightly less likely than New York winning the right to draft Hassan Whiteside or Harrison Barnes. The 2012 protection is aspirational--it's not even full-on lottery protected because the Knicks anticipate annual playoff trips resuming by then.

About the benefit: TMac, motherfuckers! TMac! He might not drive or elevate as he once did, but he remains lovable, sympathetic, exciting Tracy. He improves the Knicks and makes them far more interesting, even if only for about 30 games.

About the real benefit, and the path forward: As you've perhaps read and heard, Tracy's contract expires at the end of the season. (This is a little-known fact.) When McGrady's terms of employment are taken in concert with the odd bottom line that only Wilson Chandler, Danilo Gallinari, Eddy Curry, and Toney Douglas are affirmatively under contract for next year, the Brickers anticipate having more than $30 million in cap room. Perhaps you've also been made privy to the plan to sign two of the top-shelf free agents: LeBron, Dwyane, Bosh, and so forth. The best-case scenario for New York envisions LeBron and Wade or LeBron and some big man signing with the Knicks and the roster being filled in with minimum-compensation players. That's also the problem.

Why would any premier player want to join a team with so little money for anyone outside of the rotation's top 6? "Rotation" should be in quotation marks because Eddy Curry doesn't play, even when physically capable. Why play alongside so few proven commodities? Bereft of recent success or any rational path toward a title? Teams with two star players that haven't won championships have had stronger supporting casts. To be honest, it is a real problem. No marketing gimmicks or promised media exposure will improve Gallinari's defense or conjure a shot blocker.

Rather, it was a real problem. Last week's events have made clear that the Knicks should forgo a common basketball solution and instead make history: The Knicks should become a bank holding company, the first NBA team to ever undertake such a conversion. Problem solved. Put the champagne on ice, and read the FAQ about this obvious solution should the logic behind it elude you upon first glance.



A bank? What? What is a bank holding company, anyway?
Let's leave the economic nitty gritty to the finance guys and deal in basic terms. Pursuant to the Bank Holding Company Act of 1956, such organizations are those that exercise control over a bank. By investing in so many toxic assets over the years (Curry and Jeffries, Allan Houston's degenerating knees, Stephon Marbury, etc.), leveraging those unreliable bets to prop up short-term viability at the expense of systemic health, and effectively issuing awful loans (paying salaries to so many foreseeable losers who could not deliver the expected return), the Knicks have surely earned technical, if not actual, distinction as the kind of bank that America loves. So this conversion shouldn't be too difficult from a financial standpoint.

The gift and the curse of being a bank holding company is that you must register with the Federal Reserve and comply with Fed regulations. This can elevate regulatory scrutiny, but it also gives bank holding companies access to the Fed's discount window and makes raising capital much easier. Fed loans, stock sales, stock repurchasing--it's all easier as a holding company.

Prominent examples of bank holding companies include Goldman Sachs, CIT, GMAC, and American Express. Look how varied that group is--they weren't even all commercial or investment banks before converting. More importantly, what's the one sort of entity logically missing from that set of peer institutions? A reckless financial concern with a focus on entertainment and sports. A basketball team. Synergy!



Does this mean that the Knicks will have to leave the NBA?
Have to? The Knicks should want to.

First--yes, it's unlikely that the league and the other NBA teams would sit by and allow one of its members to become a bank holding company. There would be complicated legal questions about financial regulation, antitrust, and labor laws. There would be confusion about whether the Knicks control a bank, and about whether a financial-sector holding company could own an NBA team. Unless David Stern and the other owners amend the bylaws to allow for bank holding companies to compete as members, the Knicks probably can't stay in the NBA.

But the Knicks shouldn't want to stay. This conversion is all about capital and artificial ceilings. The NBA's salary cap is too restrictive for a team like the Knicks, which is situated in the most populous city, is supported by fabulously wealthy people, is about to have no problem raising huge sums of cash, and is using a basketball model predicated on outspending and outglitzing everyone. Replacing the stymying regulation of the NBA with the more commodious oversight of the Fed will allow the Knicks to--pun alert--break the bank this summer. If the team opts out of the NBA and converts to a bank holding company, it will be able to sign James, Wade, Bosh, and Joe Johnson. There will be no cap. New York could probably sign John Wall after convincing him to not enter the draft and simply leave college for a unique opportunity. There really would be no limits on what New York could spend.*

Suddenly, a team with a prospective roster of Johnson, Bosh, the four Knick holdovers, and a bunch of league-minimum journeymen would transform into an All-NBA First Team supplemented by an elite bench. The Knicks could even re-sign David Lee under this model. The Fed discount window would provide the Knicks with low-cost capital. Similarly, the team could more easily issue equity if it felt that diversifying its ownership were a worthwhile cost of quickly raising money for operations, payroll, and investments.

*See below in the TARP section for one potential limit.



Doesn't leaving the NBA frustrate all attempts to win an NBA championship, the entire purpose of signing free agents in the first place?
It does, but the question is myopic. The Knicks would leave the NBA and become a barnstorming team. Barnstorming, the Knicks could play anyone, anywhere, anytime. It goes without saying that it would schedule an annual July best-of-seven series against the NBA champion to determine the true world champion. Emphasis on world. Think about the possibilities:

- New York could play challenge-match exhibitions against holdover NBA teams. For example, it could play the Bulls in the United Center during a Chicago home stand on an off day between pedestrian Bulls games against the Bucks and the Nets. Or it could host the Lakers as the team killed time on the East Coast between games against the Celtics and the Sixers.

- New York could play against a non-NCAA-sanctioned college all-star team in a "pickup" game that "just happens" to take shape at some point. So long as the college kids weren't paid, they probably could remain eligible after the ensuing NCAA investigation.

- New York could do a European tour, visiting Josh Childress and competing against league champions from each country. It could be called the Transatlantic Invitational. And, without any scheduling obligations imposed by an entity like the NBA, the Knicks could generate big ticket sales and media exposure by playing specialty games. Just consider the intrigue on Twitter and UStream when the Knicks face their old friend and nemesis by playing whichever Italian league team hires Stephon Marbury.

- New York, with its superstars, could continue to cultivate the Chinese basketball market while opening up markets in other countries where the lead-footed NBA has yet to establish infrastructure and regular presence.

(It seems fair to assume that New York also would enter and dominate some kind of intramural league for bankers and lawyers. You know, something akin to one of those proverbial "lawyer's games" where people like Barack Obama and Eric Holder would be found were they not running the country.)

See the opportunities? The Fed has no scheduling rules. Were the Knicks to compete against the best teams from around the world and to then defeat the reigning NBA champion, would anyone really look down upon the accomplishments? Perhaps the strength of the Knicks' schedule would be questioned. However, enough NBA exhibitions, enough games against national teams, and enough games against champions from strong leagues across Europe, plus all that travel, should assuage concerns.

The Knicks would lose out on 82 NBA games a year and a chance to play in the league's playoff system. The Brickers would also leave behind their history, to some degree. No one would ever fail to associate New York with Willis Reed or Patrick Ewing, but the franchise's legacy would be altered by converting to a bank holding company. However "altered" doesn't mean "diminished," and the conversion not only would create a new business and basketball model, but also would create so much novelty buzz that the organization's standing could be enhanced. Its reputation could be restored through innovation and relentless focus on worldwide basketball supremacy.



What will the Knicks do instead?
See above.

Would the Knicks receive TARP money? Is the TARP program even still going on? Isn't that taxpayer money?
As a bank holding company, the Knicks would be TARP eligible. Though the organization has done an admirable job mitigating its exposure to troubled assets with incalculable values, and though it didn't have as much mortgage liability as some of its soon-to-be-peer institutions, it nonetheless still faces losing gambles (Curry's contract) and environmental difficulty (the NBA's economic model is failing). The Knicks could use the cash flow, as could the NBA. Though the Knicks will be leaving the league upon conversion, the team will remain a competitor in the basketball-talent market place. The sooner that a team like the Knicks gets back to spending lavishly on top-end players, the sooner the basketball capital markets will thaw. More money in circulation will ensure that top talent stays in the industry and that basketball--either produced by the NBA or by the Knicks--continues to fuel the American entertainment economy. That's something all taxpayers should support.

Is TARP even still a thing? Well, TARP money issued to other financial institutions has been repaid, mostly. (AIG, Chrysler, Discover, and a few other firms remain outstanding public investments.) But the program has not been fully extinguished. Further, it was so amorphously constructed, so hastily implemented, and so haphazardly supervised that the Knicks can surely find a way to participate. Never underestimate the extent to which Timothy Geithner will be willing to help a bank.

One consideration that would likely influence the Knicks' decision about whether to participate in TARP is that TARP money has come with limits on executive compensation. Though no one is proposing that James Dolan or Donnie Walsh receive an exorbitant salary, the principle behind concerns about excessive compensation surely would be implicated by paying players such high salaries. Someone like LeBron could probably command $40 or $50 million a year. However, this complication might be overstated. TARP's limits on executive compensation were motivated by populist anger directed toward bank executives who appeared to be profiting from the financial ruin which they helped to create in the first place. There are no such concerns here, and the likelihood of the Knicks turning a profit as the team conquered the basketball world makes New York's conversion into a bank holding company an attractive safe harbor for public funds.



What else will happen if the Knicks convert into a bank holding company?
This conversion will allow the Knicks to begin originating mortgages, something the team has always wanted to do. Now, the team can sponsor Hamptons Night, Columbia County Night, Florida Keys Night, Harlem Renaissance Night, Section 8 Night, Co-Op Conversion Night, and other promotions during which fans can come enjoy basketball and sign the paperwork needed for a dream home, or to finally secure that ideal fourth property on the water. This grows the financial pie at the Knicks' disposal, and it allows for the unique circumstance in which someone like LeBron James also could be the Real Estate King of New York. Try to match that, Akron. Serving as a mortgage broker will allow the Knicks to diversify their revenue streams and (hopefully--fingers crossed) tap into the eventual real estate rebound that Knick insiders forecast as taking hold in early Q3 of FY 2011.

The Knicks also will be offering competitive-rate CDs and free pens.

Do a Little Paintng

Really, I had no idea the decade was ending. Perhaps that's because, like most people with brains, I subscribe to the notion that decades are a fairly useless way of demarcating stretches of time and tend to get in the way of defining epochs. Except when it comes to the NBA, where history splits itself up into ten year chunks. More on that when the book comes out. So it's only natural, like the hair on my arms, that my personal favorite sports moment of the decade is the 2000's at their fulcrum: T-Mac/Bron on Xmas 2003.

Also, Ty Keenan busts loose with an exciting, sad, and definitive BELIEVE reminiscence.

The Gift of Metric Tons

I'm trying to think about comparatively huge moments in NBA history since FD's inception. For Kobe's 81, we went with a visual pun; there may or may not have been paeans to offer, or perhaps that was just the easiest way to avoid some bullshit "did it matter" debate. LeBron's murder of Detroit prompted a treatise on divinity's arrival. The Warriors upset of the Mavs had all sorts of ideological implications, at least for this site. I would provide links for all of this, but I barely have the wherewithal to type this much. Because at the end of the day, that game last night wasn't about one team vs. another, or individual players defining themselves. It was a long, varied, contradictory, increasingly strange and improbable, and then at the end, almost aimlessly miraculous series of basketball tableaux.

Early on, I was wrestling with my inability to criticize Rondo, from the wild foul at the end of Game Five right through the Hinrich assault. By the end, I'd forgotten all about him, and what seemed to matter most was Tyrus Thomas and Joakim Noah lighting the way to the future as much, if not more, than Derrick Rose had since the first half. And then there was Rose with that block, as iconic a play (and call) as I've ever seen (and heard)—an instant snapshot that set up his rivalry with Rondo way more than dueling stats ever could. In between, you had a stretch of Ray Allen, king, and then John Salmons, the possessed. This was the kind of game that defied narrative, at least the linear kind that works best with sports. What are the talking points? The conclusions to draw? All I know is that, when Rose sent that ball back at Rondo, the dynamic between the two was about so much more, and less, then their respective stories. Or even one team refusing to lose, as Rose put it. That, my friends, is basketball refusing to die, which leads it to contort, exploit, and transcend itself like the history of life on Earth.

Leave the tall tales to mankind. This was about a kind of gnashing, terrible, and magical story that's best explained by Darwin or a particle accelerator. For one day, FreeDarko respectfully, and necessarily, will pass the buck to men less tawdry than ourselves. If such a student of basketball does exist.



A couple other things:

-If you want to catch our most raw (pure?) live-blog ever, visit the Twitter record from last night.

-Another epic looms on the sports horizon: Boxiana has been exhaustively surveying this weekend's Pacquiao/Hatten fight. Here's part three; you are also advised to check out its predecessors. Seriously, I only know about three boxers, and this stuff has me considering dropping coin for this fight.

-Not to scare or shock you, but this might be the end of FD as we know it. I can't get into details quite yet, but in the very near future I will be getting a whole lot more busy. Also, this is my fifth season, and playoffs, writing about the NBA on FreeDarko. That's not to say that I'm out of ideas, or that new reasons to blurt out don't regularly present themselves. But I've got my favorites, my preferences, my blind spots, my theories. Intellectually, I would like to open up this space a little more—and keep a high level of content going, since I don't want to either spread myself thin or too often turn into a pale imitation of myself. In the past, we've had some remarkable guest lectures, from the likes of Dan Hopper, Matthew Yglesias, Brian Phillips, and The Dugout. That's also where we first convinced Tom Ziller and Joey Litman to become recurring members of the team.



What I'm envisoning—and maybe this is hopelessly naive—is an incarnation of FD that is less a blog written by yours truly, more a venue for a new kind of sports writing loosely connected to whatever it is that this site has come to stand for. We're already moving in that direction with the podcast, which as you can see, is only partially me or other familiar names talking into the mic. I do occasionally try and reach out to people for guest posts, with mixed results. Here, though, I'd like to officially open up the floor for submissions. If you have an idea, pitch it. You don't have to have a track record, but it helps. It doesn't even necessarily have to be about the NBA—witness Ufford's ode to Adrian Peterson. But if one of the greatest strengths of FreeDarko has always been its lengthy comments, and our community seems to include an unusually high percentage of good writers . . . well, don't be a stranger.

-Finally, the Rockets. Artest might be the real story of these playoffs, and that makes me happy, but get ready for months upon months of T-Mac bashing. I have given up on defending the man, not because it's impossible, but because I obviously want to end up with a sympathetic view of the man. So instead of embarrassing myself, I'll close with a video of McGrady as I like to remember him. Like Sebadoh said, remember the good times.

Slip Not on My Tears as You Dance

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

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

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


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

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


(props to nahright)

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

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

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



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

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

My Big Error

Okay, I finally get why Deron Williams has it in for Chris Paul. That rivalry not about draft proximity, or proving that his game is every bit as praiseworthy as Paul's wizardry. Over these last two games, I've come to realize what a scalding bad-ass Williams is. He's not just a big PG, or a guy who makes a good first pass, or a meat-and-potatoes offensive cog in Sloan's new machine.

Williams is positively Paul-ian. He's got that Jordan-esque, Kobe-esque indignation and will to destroy that people jock so hard in Paul. When he's pissed, or increasingly, whenever he decides the game belongs to him, Williams does shit on offense that's every bit as phenomenal as CP3's streaking drives. As a passer, too, he gets more and more brazen as these playoffs go on, making plays with little or no regard to the logical order of that line-up.

The bottom line of it is not that Williams detests being second best, though that's part of it. He also can't stand that Paul's seen as a transcendent talent, while because of his size and system he's denied that superstar aura. For too long, Williams was seen as having a natural advantage over Paul, and also inhabiting a controlled situation that supposedly played to his strengths.



He had it better, and yet was best when limited. No more, no more. Williams seems to be moving faster, feeling more, and going for the jugular now, like he's out to prove that Paul's not the only one on the fast track to immortality. I joked about this on Deadspin, but now I'm convinced it's for real.

It's almost enough to make me want to see Hornets/Jazz in the next round, even though, on a sentimental level, I'd prefer to see Kobe and Odom advance.

A few other things:

-Maybe more on this later in the week, but we can stop worrying about how D'Antoni works in New York right now. He's far too valuable, and prestigious, a resource to burn through and offer up for easy sacrifice like head coaches usually are. It'll be at least two years before a team to D'Antoni's liking is in place there, and Walsh wouldn't have made this investment if he didn't plan to wait out this uneasy period.

There might be purges, or stretches of fitful rebuilding, or just plain flawed attempts to make something out of dross. Regardless, though, the New York media and fans won't get to exert their usual pressure here. I know that supposedly D'Antoni is too mild-mannered for NYC, but I prefer to think he's just enough of an outsider to be above it all. He doesn't give a fuck, and will bide his time until he puts together the army he wants.



-Not expecting anyone to sympathize with this, but it's funny how much of these playoffs I spend praying nothing will happen to fuck up the book. McGrady somewhat renouncing the mantle of tragedy threw me off, even if that's still the major story of his career and life. Dr. LIC just emailed me worried that Odom could become a internationally acclaimed playoff hero. It's weird because, while I'd love to have seen T-Mac advance this season, or the Hawks win the series, or have Odom carry the Lakers while Kobe's injured, it would directly fuck up the product our future's riding on.

-I sort of anticipate Kobe's play today to come under scrutiny. By the end, he was moving slow enough that I could've stayed with him; seemed like he was getting worse all along and adjusting accordingly, but after that fall in fourth, there was a huge drop-off that he only really came to terms with on that stumbling baby-hook drive. There were about three possessions late that probably should've centered around Odom or Fisher (okay, maybe not Fisher).

I will say this, though: At this point, criticizing Kobe isn't a descent into utter bedlam. It might even be possible for Jackson to catch some responsibility. That's a powerful statement about how far the MVP has come this season.



-That was the best game of the post-season. The Hawks wins were special to me and my service to the devil, the 2OT Spurs/Suns had a quaint, happily accidental charm to it. Chris Paul on a rampage has been revelatory, even for someone who did watch him all year. But this game, and the preceding Jazz/Lakers, have been a series a well-played, dramatic movements and stars playing like that. And no bullshit role player glorification. Ronnie Brewer is a man. Ronnie Price, too.

Triage, So They Might Lead

Some major shifts on our cosmological landscape this weekend. No, I'm not talking about the Hawks, which was a truly transcendent human occurrence that, justice willing, is irreproducible. I'm thinking instead of my new take on McGrady, which began when he made his side-splitting "beer is my fault" comment. He seems strangely free at this point. If the media wants to paint him as a loser, or a slacker, that's fine; the fever pitch it's reached has only allowed him to step back and either confront it or shrug it off as hysteria. As I've said a few times, it's just the first round. Once he does do it, it's not like a parade is waiting in the wings. Then the championship cringe begins.

I suspect that McGrady, like most players, is concerned mostly with winning and losing what in front of them. When he got knocked out in Round One last year, the crying wasn't about his implacably morose place in history. It was because they had just lost a close series that could have been theirs. If he's not more upset this season—as the curse gets thicker and thicker—well, chalk it up to the fact that the circumstances at hand aren't nearly as tense. It's the difference between backdrop and background; the series at hand is what registers most with him, and what T-Mac reacts to primarily. That other thing occurs to him out of the corner of his eye, but isn't forever crushing his spirit. That's for each individual game, and the rest of the immediate future, to do.



I also have decided that, somehow, Josh Howard had suddenly entered McGrady territory. I don't expect this pot thing to last, but his play has been absolutely miserable for the last few months. [Insert tennis pro Tennenbaum brother reference here]. The back problems, the recent deaths, the burdened "just speaking my mind," Howard is nothing like the ball of spikes, rubber bands, and gangles that's won us over since '03-04. Howard's an even more complicated figure, because—no disrespect meant to Tracy—the young Mav isn't so easy to paint as merely an imperfect athlete. If there's one thing this whole weed episode taught us, it's that Howard just wants to kill the bullshit. This isn't about swagger. It's the past's radical athlete principles delivered with this era's off-handedness. And Howard, I'm beginning to think, speaks out because he's upset, not angry.

For today's Josh Howard, tune into the Julian Wright Show. Tayshaun Prince waited till crucial playoff games to make his rookie year count for something. With last night, Wright started to do the same. His game is every bit as awkward and elastic as Howard's, but somehow steely and capable of square-jawed wonders when you least expect it. Wright also has that thing that the younger, less stricken, Howard had, where his every move seemed to kind of freak out all the other players on the floor, who weren't ready to let their every pore combust.

(Here's a book teaser: When you see it, you will understand why these events are kind of making me nervous)

He'll Never Walk Alone

This conversation started the second the Rockets lost. Look for a related TSN column tomorrow, too.

Joey Litman: It's never going to happen to Tracy
Bethlehem Shoals: I can't take it
JL: He is just never going to seize the moment and become bigger
JL: I am destroyed by this
BS: I want this series to end
JL: A 2-0 sweep. Just call it already
JL: I don't feel as though I've failed, but I also feel personally defeated in some way
JL: It's like my brand as a fan has been tarnished. And I don't mean that to sound accusatory. I am not mad at Tracy. I just want to give him a hug. For him and for me. JL: I need that
JL: no homo
BS: I can only hope, at this point that he reads the essay i wrote on him for the book
BS: And knows that I care



JL: That is well said, because part of my yearning is not even for a playoff-series win. I want him to know that he's appreciated and loved
JL: And really, I empathize with him. It was crushing—I honestly keeled over—to see him dish to Scola with his team down three and with an open lane to the basket
JL: The best left-handed finisher among righties, in crunch time, chose to meekly dish it to Scola instead of trusting a move he's made so many times
JL: Do you know how helpless that made me feel?
BS: I think his shoulder is also kind of fucked
JL: I guess so. But you only hear about fucked shoulders from NBA lore when it enhances the heroism. I so wanted this for him. Which human in the NBA deserves it more?
BS: No one. I wonder if there's a critical mass to be reached with this. Like eventually, the NBA gives him an honorary pass past the first-round
JL: I think that would make me feel bad. Like those debates among little-league dads concerning whether you treat the gimpy kid like everyone else or whether you underhand it until he makes contact
BS: That's the paradox about McGrady. I know he's a man and a total bad-ass. But i just want his pain relieved. Like why can't things go right for him just once?



JL: I guess that tonight, I finally had to accept a certain fear that permeates Tracy's game. He can mask it with the reasonable assertion that passing to open teammates is both strategic and good for morale, but it nonetheless underlines that he isn't taking and isn't hitting the shots that ultimately win games and series. That's a failure of a star, and it has become this sad yoke.
JL: I kind of wanted a T-Mac telethon to replace the post-game show
BS: But he's so good. He's not perfect. But fatally flawed?
BS: That fear has to get him every fucking time?
JL: I don't speak with him, so i can't say for sure, but watching him, he projects the sense that he's tried, tried some more, and is resigned. I thought that two years ago, against Dallas, he was valiant in defeat
JL: And the number he did on Dirk as a defender seemed to earn him widespread respect. i thought that emotion would foment and carry him on to something greater
JL: But then he could get over the hump, and he positioned last season as a referendum on his ability as a leader and a winner. When that fell through, especially after going up 2-0, I think it might have made him figuratively throw up his hands is desperation.
JL: It's almost like he is us--WHY? EVERY FUCKING TIME?!



BS: But he played his ass off tonight. And the jazz are a far superior team, and doubled him all night with kirilenko. Plus the bum shoulder
BS: Like, that's tough
JL: Look at how he ended the game, though. That rushed three that was hasty and grazed off the rim; that total cop out drive when he dished; some of those laconic drives. Some of it is just how he plays, but it all belied the notion of burning desire
JL: I realize he played well, overall, and i know it was a difficult circumstance for the reasons you cited, but come on.
JL: Did he resemble a Kobe or LeBron? Not necessarily in form, but intensity? In the manifestation of his will? his effort? Not in crunch time, he didn't. But i am not mad. i am just crestfallen.
BS: The other thing is, we're not talking about winning a ring. Just getting past the first round
BS: The tragedy of McGrady is that he's a monster so much of the time
JL: I can't believe someone as good as mcgrady, and as effective as he is, can always lose like this. The tragedy is that what he can do will forever be obscured by what he can't, and he deserves better, as a player and person
BS: If he were only a little better, it would happen. That's the tragedy. He's not essentially flawed, just always a little off.
JL: I was thinking about that as i watched him miss a few jumpers. It's not mechanics or physical ability—it's almost something ethereal that separates T-Mac from the guys who are just a little better and correspondingly more accomplished.



BS: I don't think i'm going to put this chat up. I'm beginning to feel like doing this every time McGrady goes down is taking a toll on me
BS: I mean, emoting like this in public. This whole McGrady is extremely personal to me, for some reason. Do i really want the whole world to see me suffer?
JL: The only reason it would be worth posting is that in some small way, I hold out hope that when i publicly mourn his plight, it could somehow make it back to him and he'd know that he is treasured.
JL: Just so dearly want him to know how deeply he is appreciated. For whatever reasons, he's been the anchor of my basketball identity for so many years, now. Only he and Scottie have ever affected me like that
BS: Is this what real fandom feels like?
JL: It must be.
JL: I think that a lot of times, even passionate sports fans immerse themselves in the rituals of following sports but aren't necessarily drawn to it as a result of inescapable emotion. Like, i get excited about watching the Nuggets and the Lakers, but I don't feel it in my body and my heart the way i do when i watch Tracy. And the only other time i am as affected is when i watch Michigan football.
JL: Like I said, I want to contribute to the catalogue of recorded words that demonstrate how dearly McGrady is loved
BS: (fin)



UPDATE: Sporting News column is up.

Scale Matters

I still have no fucking clue what half of this Ralph Wiley column means, but with the T-Mac renaissance on, I find myself returning to it anyway.

I've said plenty before that no one's failures drain me quite like McGrady's. The flipside of that, which I never thought we'd see again, is that his highs can make your whole gut heave with joy. It's like that ecstatic quality the 2004-05 Suns had, or the Warriors during last year's run, made personal instead of ideological. It's not just thrilling and expansive, it's also hopeful.

I guess that's sentimental, or shows the softer side of sports, but emoting isn't supposed to have victims. Oh also, T-Mac playing like this is must-watch for me the way those Suns or Warriors are.

And no, hope isn't an ideology, it's a bottomless appeal. That's why Obama works so well.