Wood Don't Bother Me

Here's a track, and accompanying fantasy-vid, from Wayman Tisdale's posthumous The Fonk Record. George Clinton and George Duke are involved. Thanks to Catchdubs for the tip.

I don't have the energy today for a real post, so instead, I'm going to read through the headlines and make a couple of jokes about each one. Also, I want to get back to reading Mark Jacobson's The Lampshade, which might be the best book I've ever read. You should buy it and leave me along for the weekend. Just don't bring it to the gym with the dust jacket on. It's kind of like a personal version of when a certain "history of an racial slur" book came out, and the country learned that you're never as alone as you think on the subway.

-Tony Parker is staying in San Antonio. Have they even played yet this season? It must have gone really, really well. $50 million for 4 years. Royce Young observes that Parker isn't as old as people think; is entering his prime; and might not be as injury-prone as we've come to believe. I don't even know what "injury-prone" means anymore. One appendage? A mental deficiency? Just a badly-made body that nevertheless, was high-test enough to make the NBA? God is weird. I'm just happy that we can stop talking about Parker to the Knicks. Call me crazy, but I believe more in Felton as a distributor, at least in an up-tempo team or off athletic bigs, than I do Parker. Part of my respect for Duncan, Manu, and yes, Hill, stems from the limitations of Tony Parker. His playmaking has always been wanting, although it's improved; he's got no range on his shot; and yeah, he plays off of guys with a far more intuitive grasp of the flow of a possession. How is he so much better than what Russell Westbrook was before he started to get his brains squashed into one single skull?

-From Ken Berger: When the Magic were eliminated by the Celtics last summer, Dwight Howard wrote up a list of perimeter creators he wanted and stuck it out there for all the world to see. What a great guy. This comes out (or back, I don't remember it) in a Berger piece about ... last night's drubbing. The question we're left with is, naturally, what's Howard thinking now? Vince Carter, who was supposed to be that perimeter threat last year, and presumably still now, called the loss to Miami "a wakeup call". The subtext here is whether or not it's fair to consider Vince relevant anymore, and with that, whether he's wiling to call himself irrelevant, take a back seat in anticipation of another scorer arriving. Players do that once the new kid's in town. But before? Ouch. Oh, and I initially thought ""It felt like the entire team landed on the back of my head" was about the pressure of the team's situation; it's really about his injury that everyone laughed at.

Note: I misread that first VC quote this morning -- both when it came, and what it referred. But that only mollifies the situation slightly. Thanks to Tray for pointing it out.

-The Sixers intrigue me. They have a critical mass of useful, encouraging, or RIGHT NOW pieces, at near-every position. But -- questions of rotation aside -- they inspire little confidence. It's not that the team is crowded and tense like steerage. I also have probably not adequately considered the Doug Collins Problem. But can it really be that things are so bad that Iggy wants out (no -- Broussard says everyone botched his original report)? Do they really badly need some sort of #1 to lead the way, be a little selfish, etc.? Can they be franchised by the Rockets management?

-The Warriors, unless Curry is dead this morning, somehow have more personality than in the Last Days of Nellie, while playing much more coherent ball. Guys like Biedrins and Wright seem to have spent the summer getting better just to make Nelson look bad. Monta is now one of the most totally kosher, and digestible, redemption narratives I've ever seen -- NO SACRIFICE. Talk to Eric Freeman sometime about his complicated feelings on Josh Hamilton, then I'll give you my really insensitive counterpoint. Anyway, to sum up the entire team with a tweet I delivered last night, WE ARE THE DORELL WRIGHT WE'VE BEEN WAITING FOR. Now if only my stupid fantasy league hadn't already snatched up the whole GSW roster in the draft.

-Blake Griffin mortal, Clippers demoted. I need to make some time to watch Cousins, once Evans is back. Evan Turner really surprised me against Miami.

Here is a song that is so perfect that it's perfect for any occasion. You could use it at a wedding or a funeral:



It's like every single thing I love about The Band, plus Memphis soul, and I never get tired of it. I wonder how many movies it's been in. It should showed up on This American Life, which probably happens more often than I think. Happy Halloween!

-Stray thought: After reading Kevin Blackistone's column on LeBron's ad, which connects that nagging final line with Muhammad Ali, I'm more confused than ever. Before I read that, I'd decided that "should I be what you want me to be" just didn't match up with every prospective response to "what should I do"? If it's a recasting of the question, then it's a punchline that negates much of the introspection, and willingness to put himself under the microscope, that came before. That Ali reference would seem to support that turn. But it's a Muhammad Ali quote. As KB points out, it's wholly inappropriate; if LBJ did change the world, it was only for very elite athletes.

The real effect, though, is just that of utter, icon-laden, obfuscation. A brilliant ad is ending, needs a flourish ... how about MUHAMMAD ALI!??!? You can't argue with that. Or fail to be moved by it, once you get it. Evoking (invoking?) Ali suspends all discourse. It's vague enough -- or more precisely, disjunctive enough -- that we're left with nothing there but FUCK YEAH SHIT IS DEEP LIKE ALI. Either it's a distinctly Nike-ish (think "Revolution") use of truly important cultural matter to signify, well, something important and deeply cultural by association, one that deflects any conclusion and leaves the ending vague and impressionistic. Or it's just crass. Either way, that last line drifts further and further away from the rest of the ad. They should just re-cut it without that final sentence. Just the shot of him gliding.

That was a lot of yelling. I'm going to read. I don't know why I waited so long to check out Lew Kirton, but here's a good song by him.

FreeDrafto #56893: One Pant at a Time

By now, everyone reading this website knows the stories reputed as the biggest to come from the Draft, and almost all of them are driven by free agency and salary capism. (If there is a job called "capologist," I would assume that person is an expert in "capism." Unless the word applies to restaurants that won't serve Batman.) Look no further than the Wizards, a team that drafted John Wall but likely eclipsed its actual draft news by acquiring Kirk Hinrich and the seventeenth pick. In New York, Chicago, Cleveland, Miami, and almost everywhere else, the Hinrich transaction remains a far more pressing affair. Today's mathematics is Hinrich = LeBron + Wade + Bosh + Amare + et al. Yes, Wall's ascent was inevitable, a foregone conclusion that mitigated the news value of the moment. He had been the presumptive top pick since he laid siege to the AAU circuit as a teenager. But he was not the first high-school sensation to attend his own coronation, no matter how circuitous the route there. Nor will he be the last: BRE has likely already begun planning the melancholy farewell to Harrison Barnes that will be staged in Chapel Hill next April. Wall may be divinity bound, but those already godbody have not yet yielded their time.

Rather than contribute to all of this white noise, though, why not take a few moments to reflect on some actual Draft happenings? In many ways, some of which defy conventional measurement, last night was plenty consequential.

Start in Orlando. The institutional skepticism with which this website approaches college basketball has left it mostly bereft of Stanley Robinson coverage. There was yesterday, when Robinson was pegged as the man most likely to blow up the summer league, and there was the time I said that by this November, Sticks would lead the NBA in hopeless athletism. That is, he will be the most hopeless athlete, not the most hopelessly athletic. Those two sentences are the authoritative FreeDarko history of Stanley Robinson. It's pathetic, and it needs to change. Thankfully, the Magic drafted him with the fifty-ninth pick.

Stanley Robinson is the sort of athlete who renews the wonderment of sports. Even in basketball, where the aerial exploits of a high-flying legion have conditioned many fans to take skywalking for granted, Robinson stands out. YouTube does not fully capture his essence, but consider a few moments that should restore your faith in excitement:









Watching Robinson leap is a true spectacle. Though the NBA is already filled with LeBron's muscular drives and Josh Smith's impossible, glowering air show, Stanley is his own man. His form helps to create the distinction. Though he can seamlessly transition from running to flying all the same, Robinson is most effective when jumping off of two feet. When James swoops in from behind or Smith drives and finishes on a man, each does so while already in motion. Robinson, however, will often launch himself with unintended theatrics. Watch the first video closely. Before dunking on the entire Spartan team, Robinson pauses for a half second to elevate off of both feet. He launches himself like a rocket exploding into the air. It happens the entire game against Chattanooga, too. See the pattern? He does this all the time. Pausing to jump off of both feet surely diminishes his effectiveness, but combined with the results, it creates a stylistic signature.

The results, too, are stylish in their own bizarre, enchanting way. Bred by the contrast between reality and potential, Robinson's game seeps volatility and mania. For the entire duration of his UConn career, he was criticized for his bouts of indifference and his intermittent absenteeism. There were times when his way literally forced the hard way. And, to be frank, he can't really play ball so well: his handle is weak, his jumper is spotty. Throughout entire games, he will seem distracted, a step slow and an idea short. But he is a glorious physical force whose laconic demeanor can be replaced easily by authentic enthusiasm, and who talks a good game. Stanley Robinson knows the path, he just doesn't always walk it. Perhaps he just can't.

When he is on, though, in those moments when he forgets his limitations, or remembers what he can be, Robinson is gorgeous. He elevates for a jumper as though the ground were boring him and he needed an extended break. He throws the ball through the rim as though he has done them both a favor. It looks easy for him, not because he's so good at basketball, but because he's such an anomaly that basketball happens to be a sport he can play well. Stanley's long arms, lithe body, and active legs turn him into a defensive wrecking crew, the sort of guy who always seems to overwhelm his man during a pickup game, taking the ball or swallowing the other dude whole. The dunks and blocks are self-evident. The power is awesome, but so, too, is the sense that Robinson has temporarily achieved a tenuous grasp on his raging basketball universe. This calm amid chaos, the leveling of the vicissitudes, is transmitted by the desperate way with which he redirects the ball toward the rim when finishing an alley-oop. He needs to finish the play, lest he surrender his home. It is reflected in blocks that seem less like basketball strategy and more like an outward manifestation of some internal struggle for control. Sticks has a game of yearning...except for the moments when he doesn't. When he is airborne, he finds a pacific competency not always available terrestrially. It's fascinating.



All too perfectly, Robinson's struggle for efficacy and identity will now play out in the gloaming of Vince Carter's career. (Hopefully--Sticks must make the team.) Vince, of course, was a Robinson-like figure at one time, a man whose daring and uncommon acrobatics were startling and exciting. Entering the Draft, Carter had a fuller game than that which Robinson brings with him to Orlando, but each left college for the NBA across a bridge built by outsized athleticism.

Since arriving as the fantastically gifted and fatally flawed mantle bearer of a post-Jordan generation, Vince has fought demons similar to those which confront Robinson. We can disagree, but I always found that the central conflict in Vince Carter's career was whether he actually wanted to play basketball. Was he a basketball player with tremendous athleticism, or was he a tremendous athlete who happened to play basketball because that was the best way to maximize his body? In Vince's mean-mugging, in his self-conscious fadeaways, in his dramatic injuries, in his conflicted persona, I always saw ambivalence. The hollow, insincere manner with which he would attempt to portray hero and villain at various times betrayed his disaffection. Vince Carter is a likeable, thoughtful, fairly serene guy whose most productive years were spent acting as just the opposite, and I always got the sense that basketball was merely something to do.

Vince's career narrative has the tinge of tragedy because he hasn't achieved the basketball success to which his natural talent would perhaps entitle him. However, that gloomy feeling quickly recedes if Carter is cast not as a basketball lifer who bleeds orange, but instead as a more passive observer who inadvertently came to star in a serendipitous story. For Vince, it was always easy, a path of least resistance. That is a gross oversimplification that enjoys a liberal creative license, but there is an underlying truth. A truth illustrated by Carter's steady decline into irrelevance and horrible playoff campaign this past season. The coda of his career does not sound as though Vince's heart were ever in it. As a result, memories of the visceral excitement which VC once encouraged are tempered by the contemporary suspicion that it was a charade to some extent. He stuffed his arm through that rim and he did those reverse 360s, but none of that was ever really in the service of the game. It was in the service of his own athleticism; dunking was masturbatory in some way. Whether we begrudge Vince his indulgences is another topic, but recognizing them does alter his basketball legacy.

We don't yet know who Stanley Robinson will be, but it is impossible to not root for him. His fantastic leaping is a rare gift (to say nothing of its intrinsic FD qualities). Seeing him jump, alone, can be breathtaking. We just need to hope that he turns out to be either more of a basketball player than Vince ever was or someone who can act at least half as well. Perversely, he will be working with an ideal mentor.



The other bit of overlooked manifest destiny from the Draft was Devin Ebanks arriving in Los Angeles. In the FD mock, we had Ebanks in Minnesota so that Rambis could reclaim OG Laker status by replicating the formula which Los Angeles has used to conjure two straight titles. Fate one-upped this prognostication by delivering a mercurial, itinerant Queens man whose offense comes and goes to the team that already has two of them. Or, if you'd prefer a story that replaces fate with something approaching irony, what about this: Ebanks, a rangy collection of knees and elbows who plays effective wing defense and has a variety of skills but no one exceptional ability, arrives in Los Angeles to back up Ron Artest, the man who replaced Trevor Ariza. Ariza, of course, was the rangy collection of knees and elbows who played effective wing defense and had a variety of skills but no one exceptional ability. In 2011, the Lakers will likely draft a bear and let Ebanks become a Rocket.

One also should likely see fate in Boston drafting Luke Harangody, college basketball's reigning Great White Hype. After a postseason in which the all-black Celtics gave Scalabrine limited burn and lost once it ran out of big men, drafting a burly white guy from Notre Dame made sense. Luck of the Irish, right?

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.