Please Vote, Before It's Too Late

If you want to read me gushing about Nic Batum, complaining about Nate McMillan, and wondering exactly why there can't be such a thing as a plastic system (outside of the Spurs), click here.

Otherwise, I am going to talk about politics. Don't worry, this won't be 2008's shrill, impermissible left-wing ranting. If it were, we would quickly end up in highly questionable discussions about whether or not the American voter gets what he deserves; whether the right to vote needs to be aggressively defended with lawyers and knives; and whether, as someone who didn't lift a finger this election season past filling out my ballot, I have any right to be so indignant. The crazy thing is, as much as I want the Tea Party to govern itself back into the Stone Age, I'm nearly as sick of progressives with no grasp of realpolitik. You lose the right to play the "we're the smart, rational ones" card when you fail to see that two-party politics only get so good -- and elected officials only so smart and bold. In Obama, we've done pretty damn well. Even if he didn't save the world. That was some secular Jesus crap, and you all should have known better. Have you never watched The West Wing?

Once you reach that point, then elitism is empty, and subject to any and all critiques.

Again, though, you probably shouldn't listen to me. Even though there's arguably just as much at stake this November as there was in 2008, I didn't do anything to help the cause. I probably tailed off on following politics, especially if you don't count the Tea Party freak show as anything other than entertainment. The belief that Obama would reshape the universe may have been misguided, and the correlation between symbolic and actual social change greatly overstated (if such a thing ever existed). The right accused him of being a Nazi fascist commie, but let's be real about this: No one since you-know-when has aestheticized politics to the extent that Obama did (GLENN BECK THERE'S YOUR SMOKING GUN IT'S CALLED WALTER BENJAMIN!!!!). As a speaker, it was like seeing Jordan in his prime. So you've got politics-as-art, plus rhetoric of the gods. It's not hard to see why we all turned out in droves to make calls, round up voters, and most importantly, hit the polls ourselves. Especially when the other side was ugly, but not yet truly demonic, or so far-reaching and ingrained in the way this country sees itself. We, the young and relatively young, swung the last election. It was a blast, and I think anyone would do it all over again.

Two years later, there is no fun, or exaltation, in sight. Depending on how you see it, Obama has been unmasked, or fallen victim to harsh reality, or made us all feel like chumps for thinking that things would be different this time -- that his campaign would be literal, rather than figurative. We spend our time laughing at the right when, in fact, kooks like Sharron Angle have a good shot at winning. There are thousands and thousands of voters out there who are far angrier, and more stupid, than we were inspired in 2008. This isn't going away overnight, or in a year. Or even two. It will only get worse on the ground.

But there is something very basic we can do. Vote. At very least, keep remotely sane people in office. This isn't about idealism, or what kind of country you would build in a tea cup. It's about not being dragged down by a combination of opportunistic knaves, blood-curdling ignorance, and a form of populism with all the common sense, and force, of an avalanche. STOP THE PEOPLE, for they know not themselves. Go vote, and then get back to basketball.

The Many Ways of Birds

You may have on occasion heard me sing the praises of Talkin' Ball, the Portland television program whose title says it all. At last, we have some footage to share, and boy is it a good one. Talkin' Ball is no longer filmed in an empty bar, and Jim Pasero -- the engine who really made the barley cook -- is no longer a regular part of the panel. But he was on Thursday, as was our esteemed pal Ben Golliver.

Shortly before Ben went on the air, he and I joked about the Rudy Fernandez situation as a "clash of civilizations." When Ben found a way to insert this heady phrase into the discussion (about two minutes in), I squealed with delight. But that was just the beginning of all the fun you can have with a silly cable-news cliche and a crazy little man who just can't help himself. Watch and understand, and stick around for the discussion of Potmaster Brandon Roy.

Clutter About Light

BREAKING: First huge trade. I like to think this means Miami gets a center, straightens out their frontcourt for Beasley's sake—though Ziller points out that Brad Miller could've done the same thing for cheaper—and the Raptors now get their run on. It also depends on how much you believe Marion and JO are "done" or, for the purposes of this site, irrelevent. It would be funny if this lead to the real creation of "Suns North", with Marion once again the lynchpin of it all. Would say more, but I'm off to see Joan Rivers.

I have a celebrity birthday to tend to this weekend, on top of Valentine's Day, so I'll be low-key until my Sunday TSB column sums it all up. There might be a live-blog but at some point, but for all intents and purposes you can consider this an All-Star Weekend open thread.

To get you in the mood:

-Read me at The Sporting Blog, where I've been writing a decent amount about this weekend.

-Those zany Jupiters now have their own site, and a 2009 version of their annual All-Star role call.

-Me, among much bigger names, on a virtual ESPN mag panel on the Dunk Contest. My answers were edited, and this was all before J.R. Smith was in, but it's nice to see my name up in lights like that.

Unrelated:

I spent the first part of the week in Portland, including a Powell's experience was overwhelming in every way imaginable. Also, big ups to the Comcast post-game television show. I read this novel once in college about a Nazi doctor who fucked with people's vocal chords to the point where their ability to speak (and thus think and exist) was reduced to something primordial, and with it, he felt like he was getting at human nature itself. That's what "Talkin' Ball" is like when the comedian is on.

The game I took in on Wednesday, which I wrote up here, really illustrated something myself and Ziller have been talking about. Greg Oden had 10 rebounds, almost all of them memorable. Jared Bayless chipped in a career-high 8 assists, and I only recall one or two of them. This brought me back to a conversation Tom and I had, where I pointed out how easily, maybe even unimpressively, LeBron had racked up his assists in his MSG showcase (like that it's not even a Knicks game?). His contention was that very few assists stick with you; I took it further, and now firmly believe that consistent production in either assists or rebounds is almost always ambient in nature, occurring seamlessly within the flow of the game. These plays only stand out if they are either flawed, or risky and thus imperfect in the formal sense, or dramatic, which usually comes with one or both of these other two characteristics.

When Oden's active, his springiness and size are truly awe-inspiring, but they're made all the more evident by how often he bobbles a rebound, or has to go up twice to reel it in. On the other hand, Russell Westbrook—who takes my "blocks like he's dunking" axiom and applies it to rebounding—was a monster on the glass, but almost always lept in out of nowhere, or over multiple Blazers. Obviously this "noteworthiness" is better than the other not only because it works, but because it's intentional, rather than accidental. In Bayless, you have assists showing up in the most "ambient" way possible. Tom pointed out that Chris Paul has plenty of these, two, and that his highlights often result from exploiting opportunities others can't see. This is familiar FD territory, I know, so I'll shut up after this: Contrast that with Nash, whose pre-Shaq assists always stick with you. That's because almost all of them are risks, based on assertiveness rather than patience, and often take unfamiliar paths.

Anyway, happy weekend, and keep us in your thoughts!

With These Hands

Yes, that's Kevin Pritchard and Mike Born, Portland's head of scouting, with the FD Book. Click to enlarge if you don't believe me. Thanks to Ben for passing along the photo, taken by Michael Tillery of the Portland Observer.

Between this and the upcoming Powell's shindig, I wish we had included more Blazers. And if this volume of ours is now being used as a scouting tool . . . I'll expect a call from someone's front office any day now.

Earlier: Three years of DIY All-Star anthems.

Spanish Armada Docks In Portland; Mixed Results Ensue

It's snowing in Portland and in the mountains of Basque country, so it is therefore the perfect time to turn to our favorite Jewish-Welsh correspondent Eli Gunn-Jones. Take it away, Eli!

Portland has been hit with uncharacteristically heavy snowfall as of late, but due to the Blazers’ mildly surprising mini-slump, Rose City residents have reacted as if chunks of the sky have been falling instead of condensed frozen rain. Setting aside Tuesday’s gimme against tumultuous Sacramento and Brandon’s career performance versus Phoenix last night (which, by the way, barely secured the win), Portland dropped three straight and four of five. Though talk of “tempering expectations” and “weathering the storm” (sorry for the pun) has been the point of emphasis for Portland fans this week, there are still certain infallibilities, untouchable commandments for all to remember. Brandon is a god. Oden will get there. We have too many small forwards. Rudy Fernandez is the unquestionable fan favorite.

How interesting, then, that the high-flying Spaniard’s meteoric rise is countered by the ongoing, ever-present instability of fellow countryman Sergio Rodriguez. It is difficult to ascertain why Rudy, the stunning rookie, is so quickly showered with boundless praise from both the fans and Blazers’ organization while Sergio, a dazzling guard in his own right, is met with a decidedly less enthusiastic response. However, a number of factors offer clues in this muddled situation.

Rudy certainly has the benefit of momentum and hype. This past summer, the lanky Euro stepped off his plane at PDX to find over one hundred fans boisterously cheering his arrival. The excitement can be attributed to Rudy's inspiring play in the Olympic finals when he went toe-to-toe with the NBA's best and brightest. Coach McMillan, an assistant in Beijing, sang numerous praises for his sweet-shooting soon-to-be guard, pointing out the maturity and mental toughness that is overshadowed by Rudy’s long range jumper, quick decision making and aerial grace.

And that’s the odd thing about Rudy’s arrival and subsequent place on the team. His place is already so engrained within the DNA of the team. McMillan already trusts him; Pritchard looks like a genius for nabbing him. He’s not supposed to be Pippen, the Outstanding Achievement for Best Supporting Actor. Rather, Rudy is the star of the second unit, the protagonist of his very own genre B-film. He electrifies the crowd with a barrage of treys and legs-splayed outta-control-lookin-but-very-much-in-control dunks.



Sergio, meanwhile, is a more complicated entity in Blazerdom. He is the rope in a perpetual tug-of-war game. Message board debates can reach Fatlip vs. Imani levels of acerbity (reunion shows notwithstanding). Some call for Spanish Chocolate to play 30 minutes a night, banking on the stability to boost his confidence, shooting percentage and assist-to-turnover ratio. Detractors pray for a trade before the rest of the league discovers he’s a sham. Within the organization, all signs point to a similar divide. There was the semi-famous public tiff over playing time that led to Sergio’s agent demanding a trade. PT is still quite inconsistent, though his 18 min/game in December is the most he’s ever been afforded. Most importantly, Sergio’s playing style—fast break-oriented, sleight of hand magic tricks, gambling defense—is completely at odds with McMillan’s philosophy, both as a hard-nosed former player and disciplined coach. McMillan’s slow and steady approach is a dream come true for veteran starter Steve Blake.

But therein lies the confusing part of this whole situation: how exactly does Rudy fit in with McMillan’s value system that warrants his 28 minutes per while Sergio does not? I’ll happily describe Rudy’s game as dynamic, exciting, and at times unstoppable. But he’s often a defensive liability, launches too many questionable threes, and there are stretches in which he tries either too much or too little. Criticisms, by the way, that have been volleyed at Sergio. Is there a bizarre double standard brewing here?



“Rudy as patron saint” and “Blazers have vendetta against Sergio” are both gross oversimplifications, but those are the archetypes that have solidified. Rudy’s cooled a bit since his scorching start—which, sadly, has cost him some offensive wiggle room with Coach—though he still throws in 11 ppg and drains the long ball. But guess what? So does Sergio, who’s once woeful 3pt shooting now stands at a respectable .366, not to mention those four assists a game (in 16 mpg?!) coupled with a lowered turnover count. Maybe McMillan’s preaching has gotten through, which would be simultaneously rewarding and disappointing. I mean, the nerds beat the jocks at the end of the movie by embracing their inner dweeb, not by becoming roided-out physical specimens. Right?

The Blazers’ recent underachieving, coupled with a crucial home-and-home with Denver followed by surging Dallas, makes this all the more relevant. In the wake of Blake’s poor performance over the past few weeks (game-winning three at Toronto and last night’s shooting clinic exempt), is it time for Sergio to get his chance? Should Rudy return to his Rip Hamilton-esque screen popping ways rather than languish in the role of spot-up deep threat that so egregiously wastes his versatile offensive panache? Best of all, could this team-wide funk translate to more minutes for the eye-popping Spanish tandem together? Just picture it—“Spaniards return Blazers to Western conference elite with electrifying lobs on the court, wear matching sweaters off.”

This is just an exercise in fantasy, though. The organization is too stable, too consistent, too goal-oriented, to rock the boat with any panic lineup changes. And hey, that makes a lot of sense for a promising young team building towards eventual title contention. But, when gazing with FD-tinted glasses, frustration mounts. The team is restrained to the point of boredom; McMillan has truly molded them in his own image. I fear Sergio will decay until his will is broken, devolving from unpredictable ringleader to safe passer; I fear the dark gods have placed Rudy on a path to become a generic, imitation Ginobli. Say it ‘aint so.