Michael Redd Your Boat Ashore

Awaiting November

2008-07-15T13:32:00.000-07:00

After a 14 month tour of duty, we’ve returned to bring you the latest in intelligence, the NBA, and culture (redundant, I know). We’re grateful for all the emails and cards you sent us while we were away. You can’t imagine how much they helped.

We’re anxious to get back in the saddle again. The blogosphere has missed our handsome mugs. And, I should add, so have your sisters.

Stay tuned – Gumbel Bros has figured out a way basketball can help end global warming, and I, well, I just have so much to say.

Enjoy!

My Casque and Sword

2007-03-04T11:41:00.000-08:00

Let me be the first to congratulate Chuck Klosterman on writing a wonderfully forgettable bit of sports journalism about Gilbert Arenas, published today in the New York Times Play Magazine. He invests 1500 glossy words recapitulating what 1500 bloggers have written 1500 times: Arenas is an eccentric dude. No kidding? I had no idea.

There were moments in Klosterman’s article when I found myself talking to it. “Chuck, wait, you forgot about online poker at halftime…And tickling Antawn’s armpit before games…What about the practical jokes, Chuck, the jokes?” You see, it’s no longer that interesting to read about Gilbert’s goof-offs. We know about them already. We know he puts baby-powder on sugar-dusted donuts to fool teammates; he wears a smaller shoe to make sure his feet don’t look too big. He holds midnight workout sessions and spends too much time playing video games. During games, he picks his nose and deposits the tacky treasures behind each earlobe.

Klosterman is convinced Arenas’s antics mean nothing beyond their doing. He thinks, in other words, the odd habits are meaningful only insofar as they seem wholly unmotivated. “People are not fascinated by Arenas because his behavior is outrageous,” Klosterman writes, “they’re bewitched because they have no idea what his behavior is supposed to signify.” Klosterman throws up his hands in awed frustration like a first-time reader of Joyce. Maybe the point of all this nonsense is that it has no point, no significance, no underlying intended meaning or purpose?

Needless to say, I find that explanation deeply unsatisfying.

Here we have a guy passionately committed to cultivating his own character—a charade of the ego—a man who, as Klosterman claims, appears always and eminently “knowable” (emphasis original). We have a guy who relishes the cult of personality, perhaps even, on occasion, at the expense of performance. We have a guy determined to avenge failures of the past with 84, 85 high-arcing bombs on those he perceives as enemies. We have a D.C. guy who stuffs the (All-Star) ballot box, who steals the vote and appoints himself (Black) President.

But enough with Dubya; let’s talk about Arenas.

Gilbert embodies the anaesthetized rhetorical (rather than philosophical) verve of postmodern aesthetics.* Even if his antics feel without meaning—are, in fact, unmotivated—their form still generates significance. Asking “why” is the wrong question for Gilbert Arenas. He fascinates, like the highlight reel itself, only as a function of “how”—how he celebrated his 25th birthday; how he won a shooting contest one-handed; how he dropped 60 on the Lakers. These are questions of form, not intention, and they have a meaning even if Arenas refuses to offer it.

Gilbert’s form is lovably spectacular but little else. We see that even in his clutch game-winners. Those last-second shots, which seem so focused on intention, on the question of “why” (i.e., to win the game, silly), have a way of highlighting “how” when Gilbert’s involved. “My swag was phenomenal,” Arenas quipped after downing the Bucks with a 40-footer last January. His game-winners matter, but his swag is what counts.

There is a certain depthlessness in Gilbert Arenas despite his lively character. Klosterman suggests Gilbert’s appeal derives from his honesty: “He has created a persona, but it never serves as a shield.” I might say there’s nothing actually there to shield. Arenas possesses a strange, decorative exhilaration, like Warhol’s Mao, Lichtenstein’s paintings of household goods, or those fabulous displays of Christmas lights in suburbia. We might ask if Gilbert, with his oddball antics, rejects clichéd constructions of celebrity or has come to embody nothing more than celebrity itself? Does he stand apart from the deadening effects of media saturation? Or has he incarnated the image exquisitely?

Gilbert Arenas is a grand idea. He delights in the theater of high-ticket narcissism and brands himself with individuality. “The things I do, the things I say,” remarks Agent Zero, “these are things I sit in my house and think about.” For Klosterman, Gilbert’s self-consciousness reads as an expression of sincerity. Gilbert reflects on what to do next and Klosterman calls his selfhood spontaneous and pure.

I call it an act. Gilbert, you see, cultivates a stylized form of self-expression. He pins green carnations to his lapel, ties a yellow robe ‘round his waist, and consecrates the chalice of his shaving bowl. He wins and strokes his strut. He's an aesthete and a jewel in a league of rough-hewn minerals. If all the world's a stage, Gilbert wants to be best player.

*About the distinction between rhetorical and philosophical postmodernism, let me say this. The philosophy of postmodernism emphasizes indeterminacy, fragmented subjectivities, and contingency. Postmodern philosophers stress the construction of everyday life. We think in language and therefore have no unmediated access to the world; we have stories, which help to order and make sense of an otherwise chaotic universe but do not get us any closer to the truth of a reality beyond language.

Rhetorical postmodernism may emphasize these epistemological principles, but it doesn’t have to. It may consist of a purely aesthetic enterprise, a project of technique. Rhetorical postmodernism makes use of collage, pastiche, shifting points of view, genre confusion, lists, disrupted chronologies, and the intermingling of media. Think literary fiction with pictures between the covers (e.g., Ondaatje’s Coming Through Slaughter, Safran Foer’s oeuvre, Sebald’s The Emigrants—though I’d hear arguments for the postmodern philosophy of these novels as well). There’s little gravity in the world of rhetorical postmodernism—everything floats to the surface. In other words, rhetorical postmodernism is paper-thin; you usually know it when you see it.

Funny Cartoon

2007-02-19T10:09:00.000-08:00

Juan on Juan

2007-02-18T10:29:00.000-08:00

Strange day when the three-point shootout becomes more enthralling than the dunk contest.

Makes me wonder about the mystique of slam-dunking in this age of Internet highlights and stolen sex tapes. The Tomahawk, the 360, the Windmill—they come in spades now. All of us are a wifi away from every dunk contest since Naismith started slamming peaches. Shit, two clicks and I can watch Adam dunk on Eve with God calling the play-by-play.

To rescue All-Star Saturday night, we needn’t add Kobe, Vince, and LeBron to the dunk menu. If we did, we’d only see Kobe, Vince, and LeBron do the same dunks we’ve watched before—the same dunks we store on laptops and send to friends. The shootout enthralled, I think, because it's not the stuff of youtube and Internet video. Nobody hits jump shots in cyberspace.

“But what about Dwight’s sticker, Tragic, wasn’t that sick”? For half a second, maybe, but then just juvenile. He decaled the glass, so what? I guess that’s what happens when jocks jump from junior-high to the NBA. They still expect star charts and scratch-‘n-sniff to matter.

Then, there was the scoring. TNT tried to arrange an Academy of dunk judges: Dr. J, Jordan, Dominique, Vince, and Kobe—a group of guys with doctorates in dunking. But, a funny thing happened on the way to the Thomas & Mack Center. The rim-rocking collective morphed into Paul Abdul, Simon Cowell, and the other guy. Everyone remembered that the science of dunk-judging is fallible and supremely stupid. It’s no different from fans voting in the starters or picking out the next American idol.

I hated all of the props. Dwight’s decal, the cardboard cutout of Nate Robinson, Gerald Green’s table—this wasn’t a dunk contest but a high-school talent show. I expected Tyrus Thomas to juggle chainsaws, swallow fire, or do card tricks. Someone teach these guys the difference between gimmicks and creativity.

Maybe if Green ditched the Dee Brown jersey and dunked in Jordan’s coat, I’d be moved. Seriously, has any article of clothing so evoked cash like Jordan’s jacket? The leather looked dyed in Saudi oil and sprinkled with Angolan diamonds. I swear there were poker chips and stock options spilling from his sleeves.

The most exciting thing about Saturday night was the Bavetta-Barkley race. So, make that the model for All Star Saturday competitions: a tournament of one-on-one games between the game’s best. Match Kobe and Wade, LeBron and ‘Melo, Marion and Dirk. Let Brand bang with Boozer and Paul guard Parker. You could break it down into positions or just let the wheat rise to the top. No judges or referees need apply.

Game to eleven, ones and twos.

Oops of the Day

2007-02-16T11:15:00.000-08:00

Today's oops comes from sideline reporter Sandy Williams in Atlanta.

Reminds me of the time I was asked about working with JLo in Out of Sight.

Daredevil Like Kenivel

2007-02-15T08:50:00.000-08:00

Full disclosure: I'm a Lakers fan. I have been and will be and if that's not appealing to you...well, that actually must be appealing. My team: galvanizing, entertaining, Showtime - much like Britney Spears at a date auction, you can't help but watch.

I have a lot of Lakers memories, but my favorite came in the summer of '00. It's the end of my freshman year of college. I'm out in time for the completion of the playoffs. I'm in LA. The Lakers, well, they're coming together: Phil's working his magic; Kobe and Shaq are gelling; we've beaten the Kings, the Suns, and have only to get past the Blazers to reach the NBA finals.

But the Blazers, they don't go gently - after winning games five and six of the WCF they're suddenly up big going into the fourth quarter of game seven. Scottie's pounding his chest. Rasheed's bouncing around. Paul Allen's watching anime. And then this happens:

Brian Shaw hits a three. Kobe throws a lob to Shaq. The Lakers win the series, go on to win the championship - the first of three - and the Blazers settle for another half-century of mediocrity.

I remember watching this game with (what I thought was) a good friend from high school. That friend, as revealed via a bit of online snooping, was recently married (that's distinctly not him above). I did not receive a wedding invitation. Nor, I'll add, did my co-author here at MRYBA, also an old friend of the character in question. Several less colorful characters from those days were invited.

How do I feel about this obvious oversight? I'm bitter. I hope the bridegroom runs into Ron Artest's great dane with a bag of cheeseburgers in his hand, has his car and extensive blue film collection "borrowed" by Eddie Griffin, and mentions that he was moved by Brokeback Mountain in front of that loser Tim Hardaway. Karmic bungee-jumping, that.

Some Valentine Viewing

2007-02-14T14:47:00.000-08:00

The embedded NBA correspondent, Elie Seckbach, has Valentine's Day gift ideas from the Association's own. See the video here.

Recently traded swingman Eric Williams offers my favorite words of the reel: "If your wife is so busy waiting for gifts on Valentine's Day, what about the other twelve months of the year?" What about those other months, Eric? May Charlotte bless you with calendars and playing time, friend.

Speaking of correspondents, I bring advanced notice of our own embedded reporter, Mark Alarie Tower, who will be covering the chaos in Las Vegas this weekend. Mark was better known as the "Tower of Power," a feared and ferocious dunker in the early '90s. Expect more Tomahawks and Windmills from him this weekend.

A Cry for Help

2007-02-08T10:05:00.000-08:00

Like many, I travel, on occasion, by plane, and I think we can all agree that if there’s a single unbearable aspect of air travel these days – among the food, lack of legroom, and general indulgence in tacky upholstery – it’s the new DHS mandate that toiletries (or at least some subset of them too diverse to ever possibly remember) be stored in a clear quart-sized Ziploc bag. Several months ago, having concluded a flight, I reached my destination only to discover that in the process of trying to minimize my toiletry load I’d left my razor at home. A bummer, that, to be sure. For years now I’ve been on the Mach 3 plan, tantamount to the sacrifice of my 401K for a clean shave. How disheartened I was, then, to realize that, due to my oversight, not only would I be continuing to buy five dollar razor blades, but that I would also now be re-investing in the “technology” that makes them go.

All of which is to set the stage for the extreme pleasure I experienced the following morning when, after waking, I discovered lying unopened on my host’s kitchen counter a Gilette Fusion razor he’d recently received in the mail. (What it is that’s been fused I have no idea.) Can I have this? It’s yours. Done. Problem solved. No reinvestment, and, better still, an even closer shave (five blades, not three).

Why tell this story? To call attention to the plight of one Vladimir Radmanovic. NBA players, so far as I know, travel frequently by plane. I can only assume that the DHS regulations, being as esoteric as they are, are the reason Radmanovic has been unable to shave since he signed a free-agent contract with the Lakers last summer. What else could possibly explain why this poor-man’s Tim Thomas, who once looked like Darko’s big brother, now looks like he just finished shooting a Mel Gibson movie. Can someone get this man a free sample?

Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli

2007-02-06T19:20:00.000-08:00

I’ve been working the comments section over at Free Darko recently. The ninth comment on today’s post from Bethlehem Shoals resonated for me, and I wanted to quote it here. It’s from someone named “Anonymous” in “Ciudad, USA.” Seems to me fruit for a larger discussion, so I’m quoting Anonymous at length:

The only empirically provable contribution to race and class that sports viewing has ever given me is the ability to talk with a complete stranger about how Player X is doing. I read this website because I like to read literate people talking about how the game can be improved. I find that the forays into divining the social implications of basketball are usually failures, but noble failures. The discussion, however, is a huge positive that should not be underestimated. Discussing the sport has tremendous social implications when someone on "your" team is from another race or class, thus contributing to a shared identity which transcends race or class.

It can transcend sport when someone like Magic Johnson contracts AIDS, and then people start having debates about this problem in a public way, adding to public knowledge, and improving the perceived status of an individual AIDS patient, who is now no longer considered Satan's spawn.

Anonymous articulates what we might call the politics of the bartender (or the father-in-law, as I’m told). Basketball allows us to converse with folks of diverse races and different economic brackets; it provides a shared topic of conversation when all other areas of social life fail. Bartenders and their patrons may live in different sections of town, sleep in varying degrees of thread count, and disagree about the merits of organic produce. Yet, assuming they both like hoops, there’s still enough gasoline to get through the first beer without stalling. Basketball, like pick-up lines and the weather, begets conversation and, when we’re lucky, community.

In the second paragraph, Anonymous points out something else. Basketball is not only the subject of and fuel for conversation but sometimes the vehicle as well. On occasion, the game drives us into unexplored territories of chatter and, at its best, forces us to (re)consider what was previously unknown. The example of Magic and HIV is perfect. Try to recall how the view of AIDS looked as we sped toward disaster in the 80s; now, with Magic in our collective rearview mirror, the orientation of the discussion includes less—for Americans at least—daunting hazards.

From where I sit, bloggers must take on some responsibility for towing the league into new arenas of conversation. By towing the league, however, I don’t mean towing for the league; enough gap-toothed bassists do that already. With corporate gloss and sponsorship footing the bill, the league wouldn’t dare follow the direction of free-thinking bloggers and critics anyway. But so what? Players don’t have to talk politics to get political, and we don’t have to serve as chauffeurs to drive discussion. There is a community of bloggers, readers, and fans who welcomes the stimulating juxtaposition of hoops and hopes, nylon and news, pump-fakes and pop-culture. We don’t need to wait on the Magics and the Mutombos to lead us through the jungle of ideas, current events, and issues of social importance. Nor do we need the Gilberts and Lebrons to discover silliness and whimsy.

The game might be our Bible, yes, but does it need dogma and reverence too?

Right now, there are a lot of blogs desperate to initiate (maintain?) a conversation about the NBA and race. The problem is, I think, the conversation died in 1992, when Billy Hoyle finally caught Sidney Deane’s oop-pass and Gloria found a new boyfriend. We learned that white dudes can’t hear Jimmie, black guys prefer African flags tattooed on the backboard, and “quince” is a food that begins with the letter “Q.”

Now, I don’t mean there’s nothing left to say about race and basketball; I’ll continue to listen every time a member of our community writes something in that vein. And, as long as race remains a category of discrimination and oppression, there’s plenty more to write.

That said, the conversation is starting to sound a lot like echoed variations on the same theme: black bodies + white ownership + corporate media = racism in the NBA. How many ways can we talk of irony in Austen? After awhile, critics lose the nuance. Admittedly, the community of socially-responsible, literate NBA bloggers (it only takes a few to make a community) might be too small to think we’re loud enough to quit talking race. But, then again, maybe it’s not a question of volume.

The conversation about race in the NBA chokes, I believe, because we’ve refused to recognize the international reach and global identity of today’s Association. We aren’t split into Billys and Sidneys anymore; we have Bostjans and Slavas now. White guys might not jump, but Chinese players swat shots, Croatians hit the long ball, and Brazilians beat us all down the court. To continue discussing the league in the same black-and-white terms smacks of American provincialism and city-on-the-hill specialness.

Frankly, it also doesn’t make a lick of sense. Is Boris Diaw black? What about Barbosa? Can we fairly call Gordan Giricek white? If race is given meaning by shared history, tradition, and cultural practice, then I’m not sure Diaw and Deane belong in the same racial category. I’d love it for someone to drop dimes and Diaspora together in an article, but until then, I’m not hearing it.

I’m also not hearing arguments from effete intellectuals about the diminishment of player autonomy in the NBA. Eight figure salaries stuffed in a three-piece suit do not compel me when framed as an issue of violated workers’ rights. Likewise, botched nose jobs in Orange County don’t compel me as illustrations of poor health-care.

We’d do better by focusing the international scope of the NBA into a conversation about ethnicity, geopolitics, and the global economy. Ask Barbosa if kids in his old neighborhood now make sneakers for Steve Nash and how much they earn in doing so. Bother Yao about why government censorship won’t allow Chinese browsers to read this post. Use Giricek and Bostjan to dialogue about the Balkans and what the hell happened there. Tap Caron for a perspective on white privilege in U.S. criminal justice. Question Okur on Turkishness and why his country has a penal code protecting its denigration.

In other words, start a conversation about something we haven’t heard before.

If we can drink in a Beijing bar and discuss hoops like next-door neighbors with the locals, it might help to know a little something about their lives as well. If nothing else, know how to say “make it a double” in Chinese.

Bienvenidos a Another Boring Contest

2007-02-02T13:00:00.000-08:00

Apparently there's another big game Sunday in addition to the Hawks-Nets. Who am I rooting for? The commercials. Who am I rooting against? Peyton Manning.

If you suspected that Manning has always been a huge whiner, well, you're right:

And it's not the whining that's surprising, it's that he was combing-over so young! Plus I can't stand Marvin Harrison's moustache and generally frown on football teams that play indoors. So, the pick: Bears, 118-109. You say that looks like a basketball score? I say football would be a lot better if it was basketball.

(Video thanks: themightymjd.)

Spinning Balls

2007-02-02T06:23:00.000-08:00

The Knickerbockers of New York and the Bobcats of Charlotte played a game of basketball on Wednesday night. Bobcat forward Gerald Wallace made the headlines for scoring 42 points in what was a thoroughly average athletic contest. Average, I should say, except for one magical moment.

In my years on this planet, I've logged a lot of hours watching the game of basketball. My first words weren't "momma" or "dadda" or "milk"; they were "sky-hook." Which is all to say, I have never seen this happen before. The ball spins like a flicked quarter on the flat part of the rim and then stops.

Harp Playing

2007-02-01T09:12:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it's worth remembering just how smooth Harp was.

More Bynum

2007-01-31T22:15:00.000-08:00

Following in the great tradition of our favorite comedic actor, Phil Jackson displays some of his own method skills.

Kobe Suspended?

2007-01-30T11:08:00.000-08:00

Latest news from the Association finds Kobe Bryant suspended for one game, the result of an elbow to Manu Ginobili’s face at the end of Sunday’s contest. You can watch the play here. (Isn’t youtube God’s greatest gift to sports fans with office jobs?) Bryant believes the elbow was unintentional and expressed disbelief about the league’s decision to suspend him. “I'm blown away by it,” rapped number 24, “it makes no sense.”

From my impartial corner of Lakerdom, I’d have to rule in favor of Mr. Bryant. If anything, Kobe barely grazed Ginobili’s face on the play; more than likely, we witnessed yet another instance of the Manu flop, a blatant charade by one of the league’s wimpiest performance artists. As diehard Lakers fan Jack Nicholson told me over cocktails last night, “Somebody needs to teach that rat-face South American how to take a punch. I’d like to rip his balls off and feed them to the poor. I’d say the same thing about Tony Parker and that squirrel he calls his girlfriend too.”

When asked about the suspension, former coach and current announcer Hubie Brown said, “What you have in a Manu Ginobili is an actor best known for his role as Balki Bartokomous on Perfect Strangers. He’s managed to integrate the acting in his role as a Spur, but he struggles to define himself as anything other than a dork. In a word, he sucks.”

Doing my best to bring you the news. More to follow as it comes in—stay tuned.

Your Antonia

2007-01-28T18:34:00.000-08:00

So, we lost—beaten and blocked by an Argentine nose. A serious punch for a serious nose. Whatever, with Lamar coming back, I expected a few bumps before the triangle goes nuts in March. Plan on a seven game series in June.

In case you needed another reason to hate Antonia Parker, here’s something I scooped off the AP wire, which, I should add, is always left on in my house:

“As Eva Longoria makes her way down the red carpet, people keep stepping on the long train of her dress, prompting a chorus of "Sorry!". Later, she's joined by fiancé Tony Parker, who raced across town to join her after his Spurs beat the Lakers in overtime.”

I guess that means TP wasn’t upset because his team didn’t win in regulation but because the game kept his lady-friend (does plastic have a gender?) waiting. Assume he’s grounded until the wrinkles are ironed out of her dress. Assume he’s struggling to explain “overtime” in English. Assuming he's drinking a Shirley Temple, with two cherries, at the SAG Awards.

Assume he’s not playing in June…at least not playing basketball. Footsie, maybe, but definitely not basketball.

Andrew Bynum: Sunday Delight

2007-01-28T12:13:00.000-08:00

With the Lakers set to square off against the Spurs this afternoon, we're sure to hear a lot of talk from ABC's - excuse me, ESPN on ABC's - crew about Kobe's awesome year, Lamar's return, Tim Duncan's pout, er, fundamentals, Tony Parker's twerpy girlfriend, and Manu Ginobili's MPB.

But we here at MRYBA, well, we don't mind casting the spotlight on the little guys - or, when it comes to Andrew Bynum, the big ass dudes who don't get a whole lot of attention.

Bynum: You may remember him from last season when he showed down with Shaq on MLK day and the aged Diesel flipped out. Well this year, Bynum's been great - when he hasn't been terrorizing Sasha Vujacic, getting crushed on by Jordan Farmar, or mocking referees, he's put up solid numbers replacing injured Lakers Chris Mihm, Kwame Brown, and Odom (including an 11 point, 16 board, 7 block outing in Friday's loss to the Bobcats). Much has been made of Bynum's apprenticeship with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and the old stoner's influence certainly seems to be paying dividends.

The Art of the Jam

2007-01-28T01:27:00.001-08:00

I've always taken dunking for granted - something to do when my jumper, which is like a lay-up, isn't working. But hearing Vince Carter talk about it in this clip made me appreciate it (and him) a bit more.

"He Makes Me Wanna Play"

2007-01-27T21:35:00.000-08:00

Yes, he does. A great little tribute to the living legend, Skip 2 My Lou. Rafer's taken some heat in Houston this year with some people calling for a move to the bench, but Bob Sura will never do this.

No, No: The Squads!

2007-01-27T14:53:00.000-08:00

I was worried our teams would look too similar, nay, identical but then it turned out Tragic has no idea what he's talking about. My criteria aren't as hard and fast as his (I, for example, included our namesake and three Suns) but I certainly agree that an All-Star should have played in most of his (or her, in the case of Vince Carter) team’s games (hence no Yao or Carmelo). My squads:

Least

G: Gilbert Arenas
G: Dwyane Wade
F: Caron Butler
F: Lebron James
C: Dwight Howard

Bench: Jason Kidd, Ben Gordon, Joe Johnson, Michael Redd, Vince Carter, Chris Bosh, Jermaine O’Neal.

Left Out: The Detroit Pistons, Luol Deng, Renaldo Balk, er, David Lee (?) (the Knicks – I would say shockingly – are 19-26), and Mo Williams, who may just be the best player on the Bucks.

West

G: Steve Nash
G: Kobe Bryant
F: Dirk Nowitzki
F: Kevin Garnett
C: Carlos Boozer

Bench: Allen Iverson, Tracy McGrady, Josh Howard, Shawn Marion, Elton Brand, Tim Duncan, Amare Stoudemire.

Left Out: ‘Melo, Yao, Mike Miller, Baron Davis (really), Smush Parker.

The Squads

2007-01-27T14:23:00.000-08:00

‘Tis the season for picking all-stars. To make my starting lineup, the player must have appeared in at least 40 games. I want no part of players who have spent a significant chunk of the season in business-casual. That means Carmelo Anthony, Michael Redd, Yao, and Lamar Odom don’t make the cut. There’s a case to be made for Antawn Jamison. Problem is, I don’t think any team in the East should have three players in the game, especially when Phoenix and Dallas only have two.

What do you think?

WEST STARTERS

G: Steve Nash
G: Kobe Bryant
F: Kevin Garnett
F: Carlos Boozer
C: Dirk Nowitzki

Bench: Allen Iverson, Deron Williams, Mike Miller, Josh Howard, Tim Duncan, Shawn Marion, Elton Brand

EAST STARTERS

G: Gilbert Arenas
G: Jason Kidd
F: Caron Butler
F: Dwight Howard
C: Emeka Okafor

Bench: Dwayne Wade, Rip Hamilton, Jermaine O’Neal, Luol Deng, Eddy Curry, Andre Iguodala, LeBron James

Fish in a Bread Basket

2007-01-25T20:12:00.000-08:00

The 2004 draft doesn't get the press the '03 Lebron/Darko/Melo/Bosh/Wade draft does but it certainly has yielded some intriguing possibilities. A comparison:

2003: Following the five above...
6. Chris Kaman
7. Kirk Hinrich
8. T.J. Ford (Bucks)
11. Mickael Pietrus
14. Luke Ridnour
18. David West
28. Leandro Barbosa (Spurs - traded to Suns for '05 pick)
29. Josh Howard
47. Mo Williams (Jazz)
51. Kyle Korver

2004:
1. Dwight Howard
2. Emeka Okafor
3. Ben Gordon
4. Shaun Livingston
5. Devin Harris
6. Josh Childress
7. Luol Deng
9. Andre Iguodala
11. Andris Biedrins
13. Sebastian Telfair (Blazers)
15. Al Jefferson
17. Josh Smith
18. J.R. Smith (Hornets)
19. Dorell Wright
20. Jameer Nelson (Nuggets - traded to Magic)
24. Delonte West
25. Tony Allen
26. Kevin Martin

Which draft is better? At this point, you'd unquestionably have to say '03. But in time '04 may turn out to have been just as good. With Deng, Iguodala, Biedrins, Jefferson, the Smiths, and Kmart it may at least prove to be extraordinarily deep. Without Chris Kaman, however, it's nowhere near as sexy...

New Seckbach Video

2007-01-24T08:05:00.000-08:00

A new video from Elie Seckbach features Elton Brand, Antonio Daniels, and Gilbert Arenas. Funny stuff.

Zirin's Choice

2007-01-23T19:40:00.000-08:00

I usually welcome the sports writing of Dave Zirin. He’s a frequent contributor to Z-Magazine, a regular commentator at his own site, and a provocative writer on the politics of sports.

However, I find his most recent post on David Stern a little disconcerting. There has been a flurry of activity on NBA and sports blogs this season about Stern’s tyrannical appetite for power. Along with Zirin, most of the opposition to Stern disagree with his decisions regarding the dress code, the new ball, and the minimum age requirements for the draft. All seem suspicious of the excessive control wielded by the Commish; like Zirin, they call him “paternalistic,” “racist,” and “profiteering.”

What bothers me about this critique of Stern is not the protest or charge itself. In large part, I agree with those writers who speak out against the policies introduced by Stern. I’m troubled, though, by the metaphors used by Zirin (and a few others) to characterize Stern the man—the Jewish man. I sense an underlying current of anti-semitism animating the rhetoric and symbolism of Zirin’s language. Here’s how his article begins:

“Anyone seen David Stern recently? Is there proof that the man they call "Money" isn't growing out his fingernails, freezing his urine, and trading in his wingtips for tissue boxes? All I want this holiday season is an assurance that the Commish doesn't think he's nine feet tall, green, and running Whoville. But indications are that the slogan for this NBA season is ‘How the Stern Stole Christmas.’”

Is this not some kind of malevolent Jewish caricature? How the Stern Stole Christmas? Why draw on tropes of the anti-Christian troglodyte to evoke Stern? Is the issue his person or his policies? And even if the former, why bring in religion, the devil, and Christmas to make the case?

I understand perfectly the rhetorical importance of concrete imagery. Arguments can be clarified and made more effective by adding the flourish of a well-stroked metaphor. That said, metaphors rely on particular modes of thought for their kick, and Zirin’s depends on the uncomfortable association of Jews and savagery. The same association lit the fires that burned our books and forced Sophie to choose between children.

Later in the same article, Zirin compares Stern to a certain historical figure: “Not since Josef Stalin insisted that the girls of the USSR wear pigtails under penalty of imprisonment, have we seen a leader stride so confidently off the deep end without any fear of reprisal.” Is this ethical and responsible journalism? Stern not only steals Christmas but also carts away kulaks? Stern is like Stalin for making professionals wear suits to work?

Who’s the one in deep, Dave?

UPDATE: Zirin was gracious enough to send me an email response to my post. In the interest of full disclosure, I thought I should post it here. Thanks for the email, fella. Come to think of it, I think I helped hoist the chair at your bar mitzvah:

Dude. I'm Jewish. But personal religious history that dates back damn near 6,000 years aside, let me respond to some of your observations:

"Money" is a longtime nickname of respect for Stern by NBA players and agents, given to him at the heights of his powers: not an anti-semitic slur (it's actually a nickname he shares with Michael Jordan... who isn't Jewish.). Also, the "growing the hair out" is an obvious Howard Hughes reference. Hughes: not jewish. And the Whoville joke was a reference to the Grinch, a character created by Dr. Seuss. Seuss was Jewish. The Grinch was not.. As for the Stalin line: it was a joke. A poor joke? Sure. Feel free to say so. Your kulaks reponse even brought a smile to my face. But I didn't suffer through ten years of Hebrew school, to be called anti-semitic.

Rasheed Wallace on the Block?

2007-01-23T12:54:00.000-08:00

Here's an update on a possible trade brewing in the Association. Check it out.

Wire Hanger!

2007-01-19T08:44:00.000-08:00

It's funny to imagine the questions Delonte West might have been responding to in this clip.

The Intellectual Masturbation of John Hollinger

2007-01-18T17:55:00.000-08:00

I noticed on espn.com that John Hollinger has a new way to evaluate the best teams in the Association. He calls his system the NBA Power Rankings and believes it adds accuracy to how we differentiate between the best and the worst in our league. I’ve always thought Hollinger seemed out-to-lunch with his NBA reporting, but this latest work proves just how long he’s been gone—not to mention how many manhattans he must have sipped with his meal.

Hollinger believes he has devised a way to calculate such imprecise categories as a team’s strength of schedule and recent performance history. Weighing these numbers alongside teams’ victory margins, Hollinger brews a statistical concoction that places the Toronto Raptors ahead of Detroit, Utah, and the Wizards. His rankings have Chicago in front of Cleveland, Orlando on top of Washington, and the Clippers besting Golden State—despite that these front-runners are actually lower in their respective divisions.

To make matters worse, he has San Antonio five spots ahead of the Lakers and the Hawks (in last overall) fifteen down from the Wolves. Check last night’s box scores, John, and use your rankings to line the litter.

The main problem is that Hollinger lacks any feel for the game; he doesn’t understand the subtle benefits of an experienced team, the nuances of leadership, the drag of fatigue or injuries. For him, everything in the NBA needs an algorithm, has a stat or a number attached. Hollinger knows basketball like Hugh Hefner understands beauty: both guys quantify categories that aren’t precisely numerical and then exaggerate the results. Blown-up bra-sizes correlate with beauty like algorithms make for smart hoops writing. Some things just don’t compute.

Hollinger’s top 15:

1) Phoenix

2) Dallas

3) San Antonio

4) Houston

5) Chicago

6) Orlando

7) Cleveland

8) Los Angeles Lakers

9) Toronto

10) Utah

11) Detroit

12) New Jersey

13) Washington

14) Indiana

15) Minnesota

Something tells me Hollinger hates basketball. Nothing else explains why he so refuses the reality of his job.

A Video Message

2007-01-01T19:58:00.000-08:00

Because it's still funny...

In the Spirit of Giving

2007-01-01T09:32:00.000-08:00

Following a lead from the Edge of Sports, I did some research on the political contributions of the NBA’s famous faces. Can’t say it will blow your mind, but it’s definitely worth the read. Among these very tall men, the most common denominator is that they’ve supported Bill Bradley’s political aspirations over the years. Shockingly, nobody on the list gave to Nader in 2000 or Kucinich in ‘04.

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar: The sky-hooking historian gave $1000 to Bradley’s campaign for presidency in 2000.

Red Auerbach: Red broke the bank with $250 to a Massachusetts Democrat running for Congress in 1992.

Charles Barkley: D-Wade’s commercial father offered $2000 to the presidential campaign of John Edwards in ’04.

Larry Brown: The former everything donated a cool grand to Bradley’s 2000 drive.

Jerry Buss: Dr. Buss has given a lot—too many in fact to list here. Since 1978, Buss has sent out $23,550 in campaign contributions. Of those monies, $20,750 have gone to Republican campaigns and G.O.P. special interest groups, including a grand to Bob Dole in ’96 and his sexually-frustrated spouse in 2000.

Mark Cuban: The owner’s fan doled out a grand to Republican Orrin Hatch’s senatorial run in 1996. The same year, however, Cuban gave $5000 to the special interest Campaign for America’s Future. Don’t know nothing about the group, but their website reads: “America's Future insists that the question of falling wages and rising insecurity be placed at the center of our national debate. We challenge those who suggest that nothing can be done and expose the conservative agenda that has made things worse. America's Future works to revitalize a progressive agenda, and fights to make this economy work for working people once again. We engage citizens, activists and political leaders in a renewed debate about the kind of country—and the kind of world—we want to build for the generations yet to come.”

Vlade Divac: The former smoker and Laker great donated $10,000 to the DNC in 2000. Good for you, Vlade.

Clyde Drexler: Here’s a surprising one. The Glide gave $2000 to W’s reelection campaign! I suppose Clyde really cares about the world’s underprivileged populations.

Dr. J: Since 1986, Erving has given small contributions to Democrats running for the House in the states of New York, Pennsylvania, and Maryland. Inexplicably, Julius also donated $300 to Republican Arlen Specter’s 1990 run for Senate in Pennsylvania.

Coach Jackson: The Barnes & Noble Buddhist has donated $4455 to the various campaigns of Bill Bradley since 1978. He also gave a thousand bucks to a House Democrat in Washington state in 2000.

Michael Jordan: Wouldn’t it be great if the NBA’s most recent bachelor started doing wind sprints on the beach with Matthew McConaughey? Or began sipping cocktails with Clooney all over the world? What if he was like, “Fuck Derek Jeter! What’s Biel’s number?” Wouldn’t it also be great if Jordan gave $10,000 to Barack Obama’s campaign? Well, he did in 2004.

George Karl: Carlo Rossi gave $2000 to the presidential campaign of John Edwards. He also donated $2000 to a republican in Wisconsin in 2004. In 1996, Karl once ate 12 Big-Macs in under a minute.

Bobby Knight: $2000 to W. in 2004. No surprise there.

Karl Malone: This redneck donated a total of $8000 to Bush’s 2004 campaign. He gave an additional $4000 to the RNC. In 2006, Malone offered $5000 to a political action committee called The Commonwealth Group, a terrorist organization dedicated to the Republican Party and revisionist Holocaust history. In 2008, Malone plans to stop giving money and to start looking into more efficient ways to spread global hate.

Al Michaels: Not really a hoops guy, but it’s worth knowing he gave two grand to Bush and Cheney in ’04. He plans on going to hell when he dies.

Zo: Take a guess. Wrong. Try again. Incorrect. $25,000 to the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee in 2004. Are those wings I see sprouting from your rippled back, Mr. Mourning?

Gregg Popovich: I was sort of surprised here. I had him pegged for a red-state man. $2000 to John Edwards in ’04.

Pat Riley: Mr. Corleone donated $2000 to a Democratic senatorial campaign in 2004. Later that year, Riley gave $2754 to the hilariously-named special interest group, America Coming Together. In addition to financing synchronized pornography, the group raised money to beat W. in 2004.

Jalen Rose: John Edwards received $2000 from Rose in 2004.

Byron Scott: He anted a grand for Bradley’s 2000 presidential run.

David Stern: The Commish has donated a remarkable $835,800 to political campaigns since 1978. 98% of that money has gone to Democrats, including $10,500 to Harold Ford in ’06, $1500 to Pelosi in ’04, and $2000 to Russ Feingold the same year.

Since I'm Not Hungover Yet...

2006-12-30T19:22:00.000-08:00

I have my own thoughts on AI and so I thought I'd vent a little about...yeah, whatever, I completely agree with Tragic - AI vs. Nash is no comparison, at least not these days, and even if it's not a fair comparison (I'd argue they play different positions), the fact is that Steve-O is a better basketball player.

Instead I want to talk about the (Paul Pierce-less) Boston Celtics - really - who by coincidence I've seen play twice this week (in person against the Clips Wednesday and on local cable against the Warriors last night).

The Celtics are a terrible team. They've been without Pierce for four games now and have lost all four. (With Pierce they were 10-14, which somehow isn't awful in the East. Had they won their last four they'd top the Atlantic.)
They make themselves a terrible team. Let me rephrase: Doc Rivers makes them a terrible team. This is a fact. In recent memory I've never seen a coach more apathetic towards winning. The Celtics are at present two games out of first in the Atlantic. Down by 10 with two minutes to go last night, Rivers pulled his best players out of the game. He subs when he shouldn't, plays players he shouldn't (see: Scalabrine, Brian; Perkins, Kendrick), fails to stop runs - on the road - with timeouts. He's mostly clueless, sure, but also seems unable to decide whether he should be tutoring or coaching, which means either he didn't get the memo from management or else there wasn't one - a problem however sliced.
Doc's team is talented and young. Sebastian Telfair is as quick as any player in the league - he just needs to get a bit stronger and be more consistent with his jump shot. (The Blazers, inexplicably so far, passed on Chris Paul and Deron Williams because they had Telfair.) Delonte West can shoot - and already makes good decisions. Tony Allen and Gerald Green are amazing athletes - and Green, drafted straight from high school two years ago, makes threes. Al Jefferson, worthless last year, is looking pretty good now - he's undersized but comfortable and quick in the post, and an intuitive rebounder. With a mid-range jumper and more consistency at the line (he was 6-7 last night, 2-5 on Wednesday), Jefferson will be 20-10 for life.
Wally Szczerbiak is completely worthless. Sure he's coming back from injury but I've never seen a player less concerned about a game's outcome and more concerned with getting his - and with his appearance - than Wally. Really, a true gunner who makes Corey Maggette look like Alonzo Mourning on defense. The second best moment of my Wednesday evening was delightfully chorusing "You suck Szczerbiak" as the Mole Man chucked up jumper after jumper in garbage time (he was 2-8 against the Clippers and followed with a 3-17 performance last night against the Warriors). That moment was topped only by...
Michael Olowokandi, total douchebag. Yes, it was amusing that the "Clippers Fans" booed The Kandi Man when he entered the game and every time he touched the ball thereafter. However, were I one of them I'd find less humor in the fact that my team passed on Mike Bibby to draft the dead weight that is Olowokandi.

So there you have it. Was that interesting? Not really. Am I a better person for writing it? Of course. Which brings me to my New Year’s resolutions: Along with being a better lover, I’ll blog more. You happy Tragic?

Looking forward to 2007,

The Gumbels

Corned Beef Nash

2006-12-29T10:22:00.000-08:00

My man D-Wil picks up the leftovers of the Iverson talk over at Sports on my Mind. The latest seitan (i.e., vegetarian for "beef") has Iverson more deserving of back-to-back MVP awards than Nash. D-Wil rates their averages in assists, rebounds, and points from the two relevant seasons. He winds up with this: “In my estimation there is no comparison between Nash and Iverson. AI played on worse teams and had better overall stats than Nash.”

How can I best deliver my discontent? Perhaps as the Palm Beach mah-jongg crowd might put it, “Feh!”

There are two issues at stake here, and we’d do better to parse them. The first concerns whether Nash deserved the two awards he won (fyi: I’m not convinced). At this point, that conversation is growing mold in the dustbins of history. We’ll shake it off and wipe it clean, I’m sure, when Nash is up for a third next May.

Out of curiosity, I wonder if Iverson will still be playing then?

As for the second issue—is Iverson better than Nash (or, more exactly, are Iverson’s numbers better than Nash’s?)? I’ve made my feelings about Iverson public. So has everyone else with a laptop and some courage. BTW, I suppose we’re left to assume The Last Poet lacks the latter, considering he leaves the crumbs of his beef with my opinions on AI buried in the comments section of another person’s blog (see them here). Hey D., can you tell the cowardly lion to click his ruby slippers on over to my corner of Oz? Come directly to the Wizard when you have something to cluck about, LP. If you only had a brain…

Anyway, back to the question, and the Answer, at hand. D-Wil doesn’t consider two crucial statistical categories in the AI-Nash debate: field goal percentage and TOs. In the ’04-’05 campaign, Iverson shot a paltry 42% from the floor while Nash cashed in on 50% of his attempts. True, Nash took fewer than half as many shots. However, Iverson’s surplus 13 shots only resulted in 4.5 more makes, which is only one bucket more than Nash dished to his teammates. That is to say, Nash handed out 3.5 more assists per game than Iverson (11.5 to AI’s 8), and he did it with 1.3 fewer turnovers (3.3 to 4.6).

Because Iverson’s team scored 11 fewer points per game than Nash’s, each Sixer possession was more significant for the nightly fate of the club. Iverson’s ghastly 4.6 TOs and poor shooting therefore impact his squad more dramatically than the numbers initially let on. If we were to subtract from Iverson’s 30.7 ppg the number of points each turnover and missed shot tallies for the opposition, what would the number look like? What if we added Nash’s 3.5 extra assists to his 15.5 and somehow developed a ratio to account for turnovers and their relative impact on the team’s nightly point production? It sounds complicated, but gauging the (positive and negative) contributions of Nash and Iverson requires a more complete analysis than a simple comparison of points, rebounds, and assists allots.

Iverson’s a better player only if the game is one-on-one.

2006-12-25T12:46:00.000-08:00

Before I indebt myself too deeply to the bookies of the bottle this Christmas Day, I want to offer a celebratory joke for the occasion. Santa Claus never offers my people much on the 25th of December, and our humor has always been the surviving grace. For all the goyim to enjoy, here goes:

Abe Moskowitz calls his doctor one night in a state of panic. He says, "Doctor, Doctor, my son David just swallowed a condom! What do I do?"
The doctor, sensing Abe's urgency, replies, "I'll be right there."
Two minutes later, Abe calls the doctor again: "Doctor, the problem is solved. Nothing to worry about here."
The doctor asks, "What happened?"
With delight, Abe responds, "My wife found another condom."

Have the merriest of Mondays,
TJ

A Forecast in Verse

2006-12-24T11:33:00.000-08:00

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the league
Not a player was stirring, nor shouting, “referee!”
The nylon was stitched on the rims so tall,
Awaiting the new year: the return of old balls.

The Commish was snuggled in thread-count delight
While Carmelo and team reconsidered the fight.
Isiah looked back on a hallowed career,
Worried his coaching gives fans much to sneer.

From across the river, VC, Kidd and their squad
Needed help from old man Thorn, aka Rod.
The entire Atlantic sunk in the cellar,
AI disappeared like Sarah Michelle Gellar.

Way out West the clubs finished far fewer losers,
Surprised by the likes of ‘Mare, Yao, and Boozer.
But the team to beat, the squad with triangle action,
Kobe and Lamar led by Zen Master Jackson.

Mark it down thick, my prediction for the season
The final two twelve, given logic and reason,
Call it a belated rematch, Kobe v. Rip,
Raise the trophy for Phil, remember, his bum hip.

Show and Tell

2006-12-23T08:14:00.000-08:00

To begin with the personal—I spent the last week and change in the dark. That’s not meant as a sly allusion to my fantasy team shooting the lights out either (though I did enjoy Gilbert’s 60 earlier in the week...54 last night!). I was visiting my folks in Seattle, where a displaced nor’easter pillaged the power grid and left us without electricity for 6 days. Like Gloria Gaynor, however, I survived; now, I’m back to tell about it. (No word on the whereabouts of the Gumbel Bros though. He’s a co-writer on this here weblog, but I think he’s been in the hospital giving birth to his girlfriend’s baby. Come in from the dark, TGB; it’s cold out there, and the readers are calling your number.)

A fracas in the Garden, a blockbuster deal, more controversy than a custody battle—‘twas the toughest of weeks to go without internet access, right? Lions and tigers and bears!

I don’t even know where to begin. Actually, I do: the fat man in Denver, the Carlo Rossi of the NBA. Is there any coach in the league more deserving of a deep-fryer and a double-wide than George Karl? Class, Karl hath not. He’s a P.E. teacher with an oversized salary and a 52-inch waist. Everything about the man embodies bloat.

Strangely enough, then, I find myself defending Isiah on this one. I don’t blame him for talking tough. Remember a few years back when Bill Cowher looked like he might storm the field to shoulder an opposing team’s breaking player? What’d the boys in Bristol say then? They spoke of Cowher’s “heart,” his “grit” and “determination.” Why shouldn’t we say the same thing about Isiah now? (Answer: because in my world, we take points off for rusty clichés.) Don’t get me wrong: Isiah still belongs on the sidelines of a women’s J.V. team. He can’t coach, and he makes terrible front-office decisions. Nonetheless, taking shit from a classless club in NYC…fuggedaboudit. Let the Nuggets sleep with fishes.

Speaking of the Nuggets, A.I. must be loving the deal to Denver—A.I., as in Andre Iguodala. Watch what happens once Andre Miller gets adjusted to Philly’s players. Iggy’s TOs will go down, his shot selection will improve, and his scoring ought to climb. There’s no reason why Iguodala won’t be a 20-point scorer this season. Add that to 50 % from the field, 2+ steals per, 6.5 rebounds, 5 assists, and a slam dunk title this coming February. Every brother in that city of love will be like Allen who? (Note of disclosure: I happen to have Mr. Iguodala in my fantasy league. Bite me.)

While in Seattle last week, I happened to attend the nationally televised Sonics-Mavericks game on Wednesday evening. Only “attend” might not be the right word for the experience; “participate in” is the better verb phrase. I need to thank the fine people at Lake Partners in Seattle for the night. An old friend invited me on the company dime: third-row floor seats, free beer and food, a halftime chat with Lenny Wilkens and Jon Barry, special parking, a pre-game pep speech to Chris Wilcox (also a fantasy team contributor), and several coy (dare I say, sincere) smiles from the dancing girls. Company dime or not, the whole shebang cost someone quite the pretty penny.

We sat so close to the court—indeed, on the court, in folding chairs—it felt almost pornographic, as if the hardwood action were being performed just for us. We saw the sweat drip from muscled flesh, heard the music of grunts and mumbles in the paint. When they ran the wing on a break, their rushing bodies brewed the air with the smell of gym rats. When they turned the pick-and-roll, the pounding of the ball vibrated rings in the beer at our feet.

Something occurred to me in the middle of those visceral four quarters. As I yelled at the referees, cheered the home-team, and called Dampier by his maiden name, Erica, I noticed an unattractive complacency on the faces of the ticket-holders near me. They were too content, too satisfied with just watching. I wanted a jersey or a whistle or a suit and a seat on the bench; other fans wanted email access. While I shouted “shoot-it!,” the dude next to me chatted with his broker on a Blackberry. While I called “foul!,” he called home.

I know it’s not uncommon for diehards to lament the apathy of the home-town crowd. That’s not exactly what I mean here. My experience with the courtside big-shots on Wednesday made me understand something more specific.

I realized while watching the Mavs what makes Mark Cuban so special. It’s not that he’s the “fan’s owner,” as so many are wont to dub him. It’s not that he shows the “heart” and “passion” of nose-bleeders rather than blue-bloods.

No, it’s more like he’s the owner’s fan—every arena’s exemplary sixth man. He roots like he has something to lose, as the rest of us should. Cuban drinks from the ambrosia of locker rooms, dizzies with the spectacle of pirouetting players, and maddens when the whistle-blowers in stripes wreck the show. What would happen if every Key Arena local wrote Commish Stern about Wednesday night’s game? Told him about the free-throw disparity, and asked why the Mavs shot 34 to the Sonics 10 (five of which came in the last two minutes)? What if all the marketing wizards at MSG volunteered their expertise? Had the country chirping about Miami and L.A. on Christmas day, the way the country clucks for the Yankees and Red Sox in the summer?

For this holiday season, I offer you all advice: don’t be like Mike. His playing days are through, and he’s too comfortable as an ivory-tower owner.

Instead, be like Mark.

The Exaggeration

2006-12-14T23:24:00.000-08:00

For almost a week, I’ve been listening to commentators talk about Iverson. They all say virtually the same thing.

1) Iverson remains a potent (if not the most potent) offensive player despite his size and the mileage tread under his soles. He’s still capable of averaging more than his age and, on any given night, can drop more than Bird’s.

2) The baggage Iverson carries isn’t packed quite the way the media stuff it. His “no-practice” mantra isn’t for real, and his trouble winning has more to do with Van Horn, Stackhouse, and C-Webb than the Answer himself.

Here’s the thing…or, at least, my thing: I don’t believe it.

The dude can still score; that much is true. But, he’s far from a good shooter. With a career 42% stroke, the Answer throws up more than a $20 million share of junk bonds. At 3.5 threes attempted per, Iverson’s bricks fill a small arena with long rebounds and fast breaks for the opposition. Consequently, his astronomical 4.4 TOs per game is actually a little higher. Insofar as long rebounds, like turnovers, result in easy scoring opportunities for the other team, Iverson’s errant shooting contributes to his already inconsistent defense.

How many Iverson misses lose a ball game?

As far as the baggage goes, well, we’re not exactly talking pocket-books, are we? Iverson comes with a rap sheet of disgruntled teammates, fed-up coaches, jail time, missed practices, tardiness, and an entourage large enough to make Suge Knight quake. And we haven’t even talked partying yet. Iverson and his crew make Paris and Lindsay look like the high school yearbook editors.

Now, I know most of Allen’s bullet biography is ancient text; these days he’s more spouse and father than chair-tosser and truant. Even those misshapen blots on his record—as a player and criminal—weren’t entirely his fault. Everyone keeps telling us that. Bill Simmons, Scoop Jackson, John Thompson—they all keep saying the same thing.

Yet, has Iverson really been stirred from the nightmare of his history? Do the ghosts of his past flee when he changes uniforms? Or do they haunt his locker like the memory of Stephen’s mother and Sethe’s daughter?

Instead of the Answer, I’ve always thought he’d be better dubbed the Exaggeration. Iverson’s game, his past, his look, his posturing—it’s all hyperbole—like neck tattoos and the filigreed ink on the backs of his hands. More bark than the Big Dog with less sting than the Mamba, he zips by perimeter defenders in a single bound. He’s the Answer to the riddle of his own legend.

He’s…the Exaggeration.

Happy Birthday, Larry

2006-12-07T14:27:00.000-08:00

Larry Bird turns 50 today -- I know, I know, it's hard to believe. He looks great. We both want to wish him the warmest of birthday wishes. Thanks for all the memories, Larry.

What's the Sound of One Hand Dunking?

2006-12-07T09:42:00.000-08:00

I never heard Bird say it, but apparently he thought his Airness was actually a manifestation of the divine, “God disguised as Michael Jordan.” It reminds me of Amiri Baraka, who eulogized James Baldwin as “God’s black revolutionary mouth.” Bird and Baraka—I agree with both of them.

True Hoop pointed me to this 1986 interview o f MJ o n 60 Minutes. The line from Bird is quoted by Diane Sawyer in the clip. I watched it twice. You should too.

There’s something about the graininess of this video, I think, that seems to infuse it with spirit—as though it weren’t made to be watched but followed or observed. Jordan and Sawyer have an odd, portentous air here, almost auguring the significance of 23’s career, his image, and meaning.

At one point, Sawyer asks, “Are you thinking when you’re up there?” The question chills with its spare note of grace and religion. She’s not interviewing a Bull anymore but an avatar.

The young Jordan answers, “I don’t think; I just act. When I’m up there, I’m up there just to score points.”

Is there any truer expression of will than this? Of enlightenment or clarity? He’s giving us a sutra or a koan, not an answer. He’s offering a way of life and an ethic. I don’t believe he’s not thinking on the court; but rather, his body has become an expression of thought purified. Thinking doesn’t precipitate action, for Jordan, but action becomes a way to enact thought. They happen simultaneously and in union.

Isn’t that one of the distinctions between the greatest players and the mortal mediocre? They become sublime in action. Or, in other words, their actions always transcend the language used to describe them. It's why we resort to the threadbare vocabulary of heart, attitude, and desire. There was no better way to describe Jordan's game than by witnessing it.

New Ball, Old Tricks

2006-12-07T06:00:00.000-08:00

My apologies for delivering this news after the deadline. I wish I had known about it earlier. Seems the Garden State was a bit slow mobilizing on the publicity front. From the website of the New Jersey Nets, I bring you the following announcement:

NETS TO HOLD AUDITIONS FOR NEW SENIOR DANCE TEAM!

All dancers must be at least 60 years of age

EAST RUTHERFORD, NJ -- The Nets are holding open auditions for their first-ever senior dance team on Monday, November 20, from 5 p.m. – 7 p.m. at the Nets practice facility at 390 Murray Hill Parkway in East Rutherford. Registration opens at 4 p.m.

The Nets senior dance team will be comprised of men and women who are at least 60 years of age. Those who audition must have some dancing capability. The senior dancers will perform during at least six games this season and will have their ages on the backs of their uniforms.

I'm tickled by the requirement for prospective senior dancers: "some dancing capability." I have to think that "dancing capability" is not the same thing as "dancing ability," but something closer to walking or tying your own shoes or self-respirating.The best part of the announcement is here:

Nets fans are encouraged to come up with a team-name for the senior dance squad and email it to ppope@njnets.com. The fan whose suggestion is chosen will receive two tickets to an upcoming game at which the senior dancers are performing.

As far as I know, the Nets are still searching to name their geriatric group of dancers. Feel free to post your names here, and I'll send them along to the organization. Some possible favorites include:

The Varicose Vixens
The Early Bird Specials
Medicare Mod-Squad
The Rheumatic Rockers
The Prune Poppers

Good luck!

The Worm in the Machine

2006-12-04T11:42:00.000-08:00

D-Wil at Sports on my Mind has some comments on the unfair labor charges that dropped at the end of last week. They’re worth the read. I was too busy all weekend trying to find the perfect shoes to match my new fedora. I finally decided to have a pair tailor-made, so I emailed the Field Museum in Chicago to see if my leather guy could use dinosaur skin for the soles. Should be the only cat on the red carpet with brontosaurus under my toes.

The discussion at True Hoop on Friday asked why more athletes aren’t political. The NBA has Etan Thomas, yes, but for the most part, the guys would rather be like Carmelo on defense and avoid the topic altogether.

It wasn’t that long ago, however, when Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf (née Chris Jackson) protested the national anthem. For him, the red, white, and blue represented an obscenity, “a symbol of oppression”—not stars but scars and stripes. Last I heard, Abdul-Rauf serves as an imam at a mosque he helped build in Mississippi. No word on how his congregation takes to the shakes and curses.

Speaking of obscenity, the conversation about politics and the NBA has thus far avoided the ground floor, the earth matter of the issue: The Worm.

Bad-as-he-wants-to-be Dennis Rodman embodied resistance during his years under lights. Everything about the man’s game suggested struggle. He didn’t play basketball so much as he digested it. His game was all appetite and desire, all labor and profanity. The dude made Frank Brickowski and Karl Malone look like primadonnas.

Rodman feasted on the wreckage of the game, its flotsam and failures. The skills at which the Worm excelled—rebounding, defense, irritation—were all predicated on the mistakes of others: missed shots, turnovers, and offensive fouls. If Michael’s game symbolized perfection, ease, and finesse, Dennis’s incarnated impurity, inelegance, and messiness. If his Airness floated toward the rim as though Isaac Newton told lies, the Worm looked to invite the sting of gravity, slithered for loose balls, and flaunted the hustler’s stigmata of gym-burns, bruises, and sweat.

If Jordan was the corporate face of the NBA, Rodman was a pain in the league’s ass.

Part of the reason Rodman inspired antipathy no doubt had to do with the gawkiness of his play. He moved like a person under attack, a thousand elbows all out-of-sync—kicking, tripping, and flopping when he had to. Rodman was a tempest in a 94-foot teapot.

Yet, as the novelist John Edgar Wideman once put it, Rodman also played Caliban to David Stern’s Prospero, and incited ire from his celebrity antics as much as his court tactics.

But shouldn’t we keep those antics and tactics together, joined in the transgressive coupling that was the Worm? The man brought sexual dissidence, gay rights, and color to the sterile, black-and-white world of the hardwood—and that’s just talking his hair alone.

To the homophobic gala of professional sports, Rodman came dressed in drag, swapping spit with Madonna and fantasies of male lovers. While other athletes expressed discomfort about playing against Magic, Dennis embraced survivors and tattooed his support on televisions across the country. The Worm championed dis-ease in all facets of his life.

Rodman may have been more partier than poet, but a part of our conversation about politics and players he remains.

R.I.P. Eazy-E

2006-12-01T07:22:00.000-08:00

Because life is what happens when you're busy making other plans, I give you last night's line:

Lakers 132, Jazz 102.

Kobe dropped 30 in the 3rd quarter; 52 in 34 minutes played. That's why we pay him the big bucks.

The West runs through Staples, fellas. It just does.

Etan of Bricks

2006-11-30T16:30:00.000-08:00

Etan Thomas’s recent column for Slam Online recounts what he believes was an example of racism in the NBA. In my opinion, the incident seems unworthy of the reading he provides—i.e., the ref’s comment seems more anti-jock than anti-black. In fact, the ref probably isn’t even anti-jock (why work ballgames if you can’t stand muscle?) so much as stupid and avuncular.

That does not mean, however, race wasn’t significant in Thomas’s encounter with the referee; it just wasn’t significant in the obvious way.

Race proved to be a significant category for the way Thomas interpreted the experience, rather than for the way the ref did (at least on the surface of things). In other words, the ref wasn’t thinking of Thomas’s race, in my opinion (and Free Darko’s), when he made the comment. Nor was he thinking of his own. He’d probably say the same thing to Jason Kapono, Wally Szczerbiak, maybe even his own nephew.

Nevertheless, Thomas extracted meaning from the comment because of the way race filters the way he (and all of us) comes to knowledge about the world.

Don’t twist what I’m saying. I don’t mean Thomas is actually the one guilty of stereotyping while the white ref makes off like a colorblind freedom-fighter. That’s Limbaugh / O’Reilly bullshit, and I’d bury them and their bullshit in Grant’s tomb.

Thomas actually points us to the way race provides a meaningful lens for understanding the hum and buzz of daily life. Race can bring knowledge, nuance, and subtlety to experience. That’s why a complete education requires that the classrooms get filled by students from the streets and suburbs alike...the same classrooms, I mean.

It’s why you can teach Kate Chopin in New Haven for the rest of your life and still not understand what a fourteen-year-old boy from the 9^t ^h Ward might know about New Orleans.

These are the philosophical grounds for arguing against Ward Connerly and his minion—those who think the ideal world would be colorblind and without race.

Instead, I’d argue that the ideal world is without the hierarchies of privilege, status, resources, class, and power that are attached to race—but not without race itself.

We learn from race and its many histories. The perspective race provides offers insight not otherwise available without it. There are rich differences of life-interpretation that are developed via race—differences in both cultural practice and knowledge production.

A colorblind world would look a lot like the San Antonio Spurs: a cohesive group, solid in fundamentals, but in the end, not that much fun. (And totally ignorant about the legacies of racism and how they continue to benefit some at the price of many.)

It’s liberation from the oppression and inequality based on race that demands a struggle, but not liberation from race as a concept for understanding the world.

The very fact, I think, the referee would make the same comment to Kapono (though Kapono is as dumb as he looks) doesn’t mean race wasn’t / isn’t important. Rather, it suggests the way white people tend not to see whiteness as crucial to the way their life is experienced. That’s why the ref made the stupid joke in the first place, failing to imagine how Thomas’s race might lead him to view the encounter differently—perhaps even more accurately.

White people don’t often see the importance of whiteness because they don’t have to. That’s called white privilege, and it’s the result of racism and institutionalized white supremacy. And it ain’t right.

You may not see race when you see white Wally; you may not think whiteness matters or impacts your life in anyway at all. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t help you get that loan for your house in the suburbs.

Ask the owner of the Clippers about that.

The NBA Cares

2006-11-29T16:12:00.000-08:00

Mostly because I have difficulty letting go, I’ve continued to think about the issue of autonomy and the NBA. I’ve been active over in the comments section of True Hoop, and I thought I might let the cream rise to the surface here.

In response to a comment I made, which I’ll reproduce in a second, one reader and scribe offered this to retort: “Its a matter of scale. The NBA's earning 2.4 BILLION from ABC/ESPN and another 2.2 BILLION from TNT over 6 years for broadcast rights, and that doesn't include endorsement, licensing, & direct ticket sales. There's 442(I think) players in the NBA altogether. That's a really small workforce ultimately responsible for a multi-billion dollar product. Is it fair to say that Shaq is somewhat more responsible for that product than other players? Is it absurd to say he's simply receiving his fair share? What does the federal minimum wage possibly have to do with this?”

For me, the issue of player autonomy has everything to do with the minimum wage—not only those who earn it but also those who make significantly less. The issues (autonomy and minimum wage) are related for both economic and moral reasons.

Put it like this: ESPN and TNT aren’t spending $6.6 billion to televise tall dudes playing a game. They’re buying the entire product the NBA puts out. It’s important to remember that Shaq’s hands aren’t the only hands helping to create that product. Even if you had all the hands that dribble, pass, shoot, block, steal, and rebound in the league, you still wouldn’t have the NBA.

You’d have basketball players.

In other words, if we’re discussing the hands that create the NBA, we need to acknowledge the hands that tear tickets, mop floors, sell soda, sew jerseys, bind leather, and so on. True, these folks might not possess the talent or training of the tall dudes in shorts.

But are they any less valuable to the NBA as a product?

And how much less valuable?

Shaq made $11,300 per minute played last season. If the person who stitched his sneaks lived in the U.S. and made minimum wage—which in all likelihood is not the case; they probably lived in Southeast Asia and made far less than our minimum wage—they wouldn’t earn that all year.

Show me a working definition of fairness, equality, or justice that tolerates this discrepancy in income and privilege. Tell me whose autonomy is being violated.

Keep in mind, I’m not mad at Shaq for cashing in. Diesel won three championships for my team not too long ago, and we remain close to this day.

I’m furious, however, with the idea that his autonomy is somehow eroded just because he’s forced to don Armani and not Fubu…when he’s not even doing his job but nursing it…when he’s earning 11 Gs/minute for wearing pinstripes.

It seems to me that it’s the autonomy of all those hands who stitch Shaq’s shoes and mop his sweat that we ought to think about. The very fact it’s so easy to dismiss the regular-sized hands that make the NBA a product—the hands that don’t make it on TV, the ones that burn from the glues used in making the new ball, the hands that work other jobs after the tall guys go home and pussyfoot with personal chefs and valets—suggests that their autonomy is already at risk.

People died in the Superdome. But the autonomy of the guys who play in it is violated?

I wonder what the minimum age (and I mean age, not wage) for stitching Shaq’s shoes is. You think it’s high enough?

Watch a game on ESPN Classic tonight from 30 years ago. You’ll notice a difference from today’s game. Maybe the talent wasn’t as good then; maybe the players didn’t train as hard or jump as high.

But that’s not the only difference. It’s not even the most significant difference. The difference I notice has to do with the NBA as a product: the jerseys aren’t as glossy, the floor not as polished, the shoes don’t look new, the arenas aren’t as comfortable, the broadcast not as nice, the video games non-existent, the wives not entertained.

It’s the product that sells not the players. You take those same players from 30 years ago and put them in today’s product, and the NBA still sells. Why? Because most of the people buying it want the product, not the talent. That’s why the video games sell more than the stadiums.

Why wasn’t the NBA international in the ‘80s? Why weren’t people in China sporting Bird jerseys? Is it because Bird wasn’t as good as Dirk? C’mon now, you know better.

It’s because the product wasn’t as developed or as polished; the NBA didn’t look all that different from the YMCA in anything but talent. And talent doesn’t sell jerseys or make them. The product does.

As long as we’re talking about the NBA as a product, which we always are unless we’re strictly talking talent (and television is never about talent), then you have to talk about all the hands that help to create it. Therefore, the conversation about player autonomy needs to begin with—or at least include—the autonomy of the people who make all the shit the NBA sells: from jerseys and jackets, to popcorn and Pepsi.

Shaq doesn’t make $11,300 per minute played unless someone is stitching his shoes for nothing. Remind me again about the dress code.

I wonder how many hands fit inside Shaq’s left shoe. Is their annual labor the same value as Shaq’s labor per minute? Is their autonomy bought with rookie wage scales? Are these questions even humane?

Tell me I’m wrong, Professor.

Stirred, Not Shaken

2006-11-29T08:05:00.000-08:00

Wow! This has been quite the exchange for a still-green blog like ours. I’m excited that seasoned blog vets and busy people like Michael McCann and True Hoop’s Henry Abbott took the time to respond. It’s great when basketball fans move outside the box, and box scores, to discuss meaningful issues that fall below the usual hardwood radar. To me, our conversation thrills more than any regular “who’s-the-next-Jordan” debate, and I’m thankful the Internets act like techno-bartenders and help to facilitate our discussion in arenas beyond where the usual debates are confined. In the spirit of bartenders, I’d like to clink glasses again and continue our conversation by offering a response to the responses. Call it a meta-response on player autonomy but don’t try whistling at the same time.

I want to begin with the last point McCann makes, mostly because True Hoop also took issue with it. Both disagree with the following comment I made in my review of McCann’s article: “I find it off-putting to employ the discourse of labor rights in a conversation about multi-million dollar athletes. I prefer to save the efficacy of that language for underpaid blue-collar laborers, undocumented immigrants, and sex workers—just to name a few.”

True Hoop responds by writing, “There is not a rate of pay that makes exploitation OK. Wrong is wrong, and if it's wrong for an employer to test an employee's DNA, then it's wrong for the Bulls to test Eddy Curry's DNA, right?”

Well, sort of. I agree that exploitation is exploitation no matter which way the cheese is dealt. And I’m wrong to suggest that articulations of labor rights should be saved only for certain workers—as though labor rights were somehow like oil and in danger of running out if used too extravagantly.

That said, I also believe exploitation takes many different forms, and it doesn’t always mean the same thing. Exploitation, like autonomy, is situational, I suppose. For example, if my boss demanded I drop and give him twenty, I’d phone the EEOC; Eddy Curry probably wouldn’t. If my boss demanded celibacy, I’d cry foul; for others, celibacy is merely the flipside of living closer to God.

Which is all to say, I don’t think it’s necessarily wrong to test Curry’s DNA just because it’s wrong to test the DNA of telemarketers or cabbies or cat-sitters. The distinction here is the crux of McCann’s argument about the dress code, right? It’s why some in the sports world petition to wear suits and others protest them.

McCann responds to my point about labor rights by writing, “You are basically saying that the fact that these guys make a lot of money means their autonomy is not really a concern for you. Aren’t they still people or do they somehow become less human because they make a lot of money?”

Definitely still people, Professor—on that much, we agree.

In fact, I agree with you on the other point as well: the autonomy of NBA players isn’t really a concern for me. Luckily for them, it doesn’t have to be. The millions they make means they have access to resources most of us do not. These resources include lawyers, justice advocates, foundations, academics, Al Sharpton, the mainstream media—you name it.

What bothers me is that those folks most in danger of being exploited (e.g., blue-collar laborers, undocumented immigrants, sex workers, etc.) are also the people who lack the resources to prevent their exploitation. They don’t even have assistant coaches or trainers or ball boys, let alone legal counsel. That’s the reason why I think it’s socially irresponsible to discuss the labor rights of multi-million dollar athletes without considering the human rights of people on minimum wage.

McCann also asks, “is it their wealth as much as who they are that bothers you: would you feel the same way about Bill Gates as you do about Allen Iverson?”

Yes, I do feel the same way about Bill Gates—billions of times more so, in fact. That much wealth in the hands of one person, whether Paul Allen or Malik Allen, irritates me to no end. Frankly, I’m surprised you don’t agree with me.

The autonomy of all of us is eroded when wealth is distributed unequally, Professor, especially in a country where health care is directly tied to how much money you make. Fixing the problem is structural (which is why Gates and the NBA can donate so much cash and so many sneakers, and still dissatisfy me), of course, but it also demands that Gates and Iverson take pay-cuts.

Next time you’re in Los Angeles, Professor, take a ride by the old Forum in Inglewood. Don’t you think there are material connections between the spectacular economy of the Showtime Lakers and Inglewood’s economy of unemployment and blight? My man Magic knows this. Cassius realized and became Muhammad. Even Iverson has come to understand.

As much as I root for the Lakers, I save my advocacy for those who don’t play under lights. You dig?

McCann also corrects me by saying that his statistics were verified by the dudes in suits at ESPN. Fair enough. I care more about the stats of my fantasy basketball team anyway.

As for McCann’s definition of the term “autonomy,” well, it still remains hazy (or “amorphous,” as McCann puts it). I suppose it has to for his argument to have traction.

McCann cites another example of the erosion of player autonomy in his response: the rookie draft. To be fair, I’ll quote the paragraph in full before I respond: “First off, consider that some would argue the draft itself is an infringement on player autonomy. Players have to play for a particular team in a particular city, neither of which they may like, and the only alternative would be to play minor league hoops or play in Europe; it’s like being a law student at UCLA and planning to practice in L.A., but then there is a law firm draft and you get picked by a law firm in Bismarck North Dakota, and have to stay there for at least four years or you can’t practice law in the U.S. (or at least practice law in the U.S. without having to give up 95% of your salary). For related commentary on this, check out Alan Milstein’s post Reggie Bush Sweepstakes from last December.”

If I follow his point correctly, the fact some players call Staples home while others are forced to live near Charlotte is proof the players are losing their autonomy. Dude, you stagger me.

Many high-profile jobs require that employees live in certain areas. For instance, if a college student from Bismarck really wants to work in publishing, he’ll probably have to say goodbye Dakota, hello New York. That’s the breaks. Part of choosing a profession requires decisions like these. I’m guessing most ballers decide early on that the perks of cheerleaders and paychecks outweigh the bummers of relocation. Autonomy has nothing to do with it.

When we choose career paths, we also make decisions about the desirability of the lifestyle (sorry, I hate that word too) that comes with the job. That’s why not everyone with charisma and smarts wants to be a law professor. And not everyone with size wants to be a bodyguard or a cop.

Ideally, I suppose, we’d all have our choice of profession, region, dress code, wage, and qualifications. It kind of just seems like that’s not really possible, no? And if it is, Scalabrine’s contract probably isn’t moving us any closer, right? Might even be setting us back.

McCann’s argument about the erosion of autonomy implies that all social contracts reduce the autonomy of those who enter into them. McCann would have us believe that signing million-dollar deals doesn’t realize or empower player autonomy but erodes it. I find that difficult to believe. Just as Ben Wallace knew about Skiles’s rules before he signed with the Bulls, athletes know about Stern’s when they declare their dreams.

Yes, Marcus Camby might hate wearing a suit, and sure, he didn’t bargain for it when he picked up the ball long ago. But, wearing a suit to work doesn’t mean he’s up against the Leviathan—especially with $9.3 mil in his double-breasted pockets.

Question: How many sweatbands must an NBA athlete buy before he goes bankrupt?
Answer: I’m more concerned with the people in sweatshops making all of those sweatbands.

Aren’t you?

Michael McCann and Player Autonomy

2006-11-27T16:26:00.000-08:00

Sports attorney and law professor Michael McCann writes for the Sports Law Blog, a fascinating website devoted to “all things legal related to the sports world.” A graduate of the University of Virginia law school, a former visiting professor at Harvard, a member of Maurice Clarett’s legal counsel, and a current professor of law at Mississippi College, McCann is a distinguished young attorney and outspoken scholar of sports law, torts, and social psychology. His research is primarily concerned with the cognitive and social causes that influence popular beliefs about professional athletes. In the past, he's been most vocal about his support of players who jump from high school to the NBA.

Following a tip from Henry Abbott at True Hoop, I dug into McCann’s recent article, “The Reckless Pursuit of Dominion: A Situational Analysis of the NBA and Diminishing Player Autonomy,” published in the University of Pennsylvania Journal of Labor and Employment Law (Summer, 2006). Given that most bball junkies probably lack academic library access, and even more choose not to find their hoops buzz in scholarly journals, I thought I’d do the labor and offer my thoughts on McCann’s piece here.

McCann wants to argue that the last decade or so of NBA basketball has witnessed a steady erosion in player autonomy. McCann finds evidence for his argument in the 1995 implementation of a rookie wage scale, last year’s mandated dress code, the newly elevated minimum age for draft eligibility, and the Chicago Bulls decision to require that Eddy Curry undergo genetic testing (for heart disease) before signing him in the summer of 2005. All four measures, according to McCann, are indicative of the NBA’s insidious plan to control players and usurp their autonomy.

As far as I’m concerned, McCann’s article might be divided into two parts. The first part consists of his sophisticated analyses of the rookie wage scale, the dress code, and the minimum age for draft eligibility. The second part represents his use of these analyses to support an argument about limitations in player autonomy. Because I found the larger stakes of the article troubling—and I’ll discuss why toward the end—I want to tease out these separate parts, acknowledging the elements I believe praiseworthy while questioning those that came up short.

McCann is best when describing how the NBA manipulates the fans and sports media to support the policies the league implements. According to McCann, certain social “knowledge structures” and “cognitive biases” oversimplify complicated issues and lead to the production of inaccurate systems of belief. These belief systems ultimately make it easier for the NBA to usurp player autonomy by disguising the league’s policies as common sense.

For example, we tend to see the collective bargaining agreements of the Players Association—such as those that led to the rookie wage scale in 1995—as serving the best interests of all NBA players. Yet, for McCann, our faith in collectively-bargained rules represents an “attribution error,” or a failure to analyze the more nuanced and less-observable aspects of the negotiation process. McCann wisely points out that the players often affected most by these agreements are those without voice in the bargaining process—namely, the soon-to-be rookies themselves. Furthermore, because of the absence of viable alternative basketball leagues, McCann suggests, even those players represented in bargaining agreements are more likely to capitulate to league demands.

McCann also illuminates the subtle knowledge structures supporting the establishment of a dress code. The common association of hip-hop culture and delinquency helped to validate David Stern’s new dress code, first announced last summer. Hoping to cleanse the NBA of this thuggish appearance, Stern’s decision relied on simplified and erroneous assumptions about the morality of men in “street” clothes. Moreover, although the dress code emptied the players’ closets of hip-hop fashion, the league continues to approve of hip-hop-inspired halftime shows, videogames, and endorsement deals. The double standard went unrecognized in Stern’s announcements, not to mention his choir of yes-men in the media.

Similarly, the decision to raise the minimum age for draft eligibility depended on the unfounded belief that younger players are especially susceptible to nefarious activities. For the commish and many media commentators, college is necessary for teaching hardwood fundamentals, as well as for providing character-building life experience. To complicate this assertion, McCann not only proves that the most notorious NBA players (guys like Spree, Ruben Patterson, and “Mighty Mouse” Stoudamire) were in fact four-year college graduates, but also indicates how college athletes often fail to receive the education experience Stern believes is promised them.

By and large, I am impressed by McCann’s analysis of the underside to the rookie wage scale, the dress code, and the elevated minimum age. His reading of the implications in Curry’s mandated genetic testing is also very impressive, though too lengthy for me to detail here. Let it suffice to say that genetic testing raises a host of difficult ethical questions the NBA is not yet equipped to deliberate.

While I approve of McCann’s evidence, as well as the way he interprets it, I am bothered by his argument about the diminution of player autonomy. First, I'm forced to bang my academic gavel on the term around which his entire argument pivots—autonomy. McCann never defines what he means by autonomy yet gets considerable truck from the concept.

At times, McCann’s notion of autonomy seems synonymous with something like self-determination (admittedly, just as vague). At other moments, the word suggests more material freedoms, like personal expression and the right to work. However, these are all very different ways of imagining autonomy. For instance, the exercise of self-determination might actually result in a willful decision to undercut one’s autonomy. The defense of right-to-die legislation works with ideas of self-determination and autonomy in precisely this manner. In this light, the two are hardly synonymous.

Without a concept like autonomy clearly defined—though so crucial to his article—McCann’s argument is able to bend in a number of ludicrous positions. If freedom of expression and the right to work are all that’s at stake, I wonder why McCann stopped with the dress code and age requirement. When the Knicks go small and bench Curry, doesn’t that decision usurp his autonomy? What if they bring in Kelvin Cato only to foul Shaq? Would that constitute the erosion of Cato’s autonomy? More appropriately, is Coach Skiles’s prohibition on headbands a violation of Ben Wallace’s autonomy? It certainly violates his freedom of expression. What about alternate road jerseys if players prefer their standard away threads?

Second, McCann benefits from some statistical sleight-of-hand. At one point, for example, McCann writes, “objective data suggests that prep-to-pro players outperform other NBA players. In fact, they average more points, rebounds, and assists than does the average NBA player or the average player of any age group.” I think it’s fair to call this a dubious statistic, not only because McCann cites his own research to prove it. There has to be some way of adjusting these averages to account for sample size; otherwise, the disproportionately high number of players with some college experience dilutes the averages in question. Furthermore, McCann neglects to indicate whether his prep-to-pro numbers include the Ndubi Ebis and TajMcDavids of the world—high school blue-chippers who, after declaring for the draft, saw little to no time in the NBA. Similar trouble with statistical manipulation (either specious numbers or inappropriate contexts) runs throughout the article.

Lastly, I want to ask McCann what is gained by acknowledging the erosion of player autonomy, if such a thing can even be said to exist. How might the problem be amended? If he means merely to encourage a more nuanced recognition of the knowledge structures influencing league decisions, why bring in terms like autonomy and “labor harmony”? If higher salaries are an answer to autonomy usurpation, isn’t there something socially irresponsible at work in McCann’s argument?

Do corporate CEOs experience a loss in autonomy when whistle blowers uncover corruption? Was Martha Stewart’s autonomy violated by the outing of her insider deals? What, in other words, prevents the application of McCann’s argument to these more disturbing spaces and cases of high profile employment?

I do not mean that McCann advocates for law breakers and criminals. Instead, I want only to express why I find it off-putting to employ the discourse of labor rights in a conversation about multi-million dollar athletes. I prefer to save the efficacy of that language for underpaid blue-collar laborers, undocumented immigrants, and sex workers—just to name a few.

Although McCann successfully demonstrates the complexity of issues like the rookie wage scale, the dress code, and the minimum age requirement, he ends on terms I cannot endorse. Fortunately, the NBA and its players aren’t hurting for endorsements.

Thus Spake Isiah

2006-11-25T14:42:00.000-08:00

"We haven't been patient enough force-feeding the post," former Pistons Bad Boy and current Knick coach Isiah Thomas whined after last night’s road roasting of the Celtics. "Tonight, our post-patience play was very good."

Force-feeding? Post-patience play? Does Isiah have the foggiest clue what he’s doing? Can you imagine any other coach using a phrase like post-patience play?

Doesn’t it feel like the Knicks have traded places with the cast of Saturday Night Live? That they aren’t really a basketball team but just play one in a Christopher Guest movie?

Some of their players don’t even look like athletes. Eddy Curry (pronounced almost like "Calorie"), for one, and Quentin Richardson, for another, look more like guys impersonating athletes. These men remind me of bloated has-beens, still ruling the playground courts with their oversized bodies and monumental sweat. I once saw Curry called for two charges in the same half-court set. I know it sounds like Kersey and Nies blew the call, but once you’ve seen Curry play (I'll take the poetic license), it makes sense.

The irony of the Knicks this season is that they are actually the perfect team for New York. The squad is stuffed with stubborn individuals, too marooned in their own feisty self-reliance to acknowledge they work in the same place. It’s like Isiah fell in love with boy-comes-to-the-big-city stories and tried to replicate the formula on the hardwood. He brought in different versions of the same diva. Steph, Franchise, Jalen (like other New Yorkers, he's wintering in Phoenix), Jamal, Q—they'd all prefer to have next in your local And-One game. Forget about screens, ditch the off-ball motion, and leave the boxing out for your restaurant’s leftovers.

There is no “I” in “team,” but there are far too many in “Isiah’s.”

His best five come off the bench:
PG: Nate Robinson (the only player worth watching on the Knicks)
SG: Jamal Crawford (one of the quickest crossovers in the game)
SF: Renaldo Balkman (who resembles Humpty from Digital Underground a little)
PF: David Lee (game like Cedric Ceballos)
C: Channing Frye (sidelined for 3 to 6 with an ankle roll)

The only thing that might make the Knicks worse is if Clyde Frazier announced their games, and, alas, he already does. The other night against Denver, he referred to Marcus Camby as one of the best “block shotters” in the game. Repeatedly.

Block shotters? Post-patience play?

New Yorkers love a good joke, but this one harldy seems practical!

Mr. Answer Man

2006-11-24T12:53:00.000-08:00

In a post-Heisenberg world, there are few questions with certain answers. Is she a woman? Would you like red or white? Are those real? We’ve all been asked questions like these—sent stumbling before their uncertain answers.

I thought I’d offer my list of the five most reliable questions—that is, questions with the simplest answers. They just don’t come any easier.

Can I tell you a secret? Show me someone who doesn’t like hearing secrets, and I’ll show you a liar. Secrets might be the reason people get married. They are certainly one reason we get divorced. Hearing another person’s secret helps us feel more human, more in touch with the closet mysteries of others. If nothing else, secrets help us feel superior to other humans. At the cutting edge of someone else’s secret is a competition you can’t lose. Consequently, the answer is always “yes, tell me.”

Do you want to go upstairs? No brainer. Wishing you had said “no” is infinitely better than regretting you didn’t answer “yes” – unless, of course, the person asking is Shawn Kemp and you want “upstairs” to include child support.

Can I buy you a drink? Tough call on this one. I’ve heard reasons why “no” is a possibility. You might be too pickled to stomach another; too married to accept cocktails from strangers; too loyal to drink with your best friend’s sister (read: too boring, not loyal). But that’s not really what’s at stake with this question. Someone is offering to give you something, and though there may be strings attached, they’re only fastened with Velcro. Just say yes.

Did you think you were going the speed limit? Other derivations of this question include, “How fast did you think you were going?” and “Do you know the speed limit in this area?” It makes no difference. The answer is either “yes” or “the speed limit.” Why would you respond otherwise? Nothing is gained by answering “no, I thought I was speeding.”

Do I know you? If you’re answering “no” to this question, you lack imagination. And even if you lack imagination, just memorize a few possible responses to the question. You might try, “It depends. Do you watch much porn?” How about, “No, but I know your wife” (add an elbow jab to accent “know”). Or, “Dad, I think it’s time for your pill.”

Have fun and be safe.

Yours,

More Klum(s)

2006-11-23T22:55:00.000-08:00

The second piece of proof that Seal isn't too, well, endowed is upon us. On Wednesday Heidi gave birth to the couple's second child, Johan Riley Fyodor Taiwo Samuel. He joins their first, Henry Günther Ademola Dashtu Samuel. (You know, just so the kids have options.) Seal announced the birth on his website, paying his wife the highest of compliments:

"She is so good at having babies, I feel so blessed and fortunate to have a wife like her"

Yup. Just another reason to be thankful for Ms. Klum.

TGB

Heidi, You're In

2006-11-23T13:18:00.000-08:00

On this day of giving thanks, I want to add a blessing too few will mention around tonight’s table. Not a prayer for world peace; not a song for the earthly bounty we’ll eat; not the Lakers I love, the pants I wear, or the dogs I pet—for these I’m thankful but not dependent.

On this Thanksgiving, I want to toast Heidi Klum.

She makes me a better man. Or, at least, she makes me want to be a better man. And taller. Maybe darker. Six-feet high, well-bronzed and blonde, Heidi Klum boasts the grace of a ballerina and the wit of a poetess. Hers is a life worth modeling.

That’s my message for our readers, especially the young girls out there. What you lack in personality, make up for with good looks.

Heidi, here's to you.

All best,
TJ

May I Hear That Used In a Sentence, Please?

2006-11-23T11:32:00.000-08:00

I was recently informed that Dwayne Wade’s first name is in fact spelled Dwyane.

I know. I didn’t believe it either, but I’ve since checked several sources – and the old issue of GQ (Gentlemen’s Quarterly – also didn’t know that) on my coffee table – and this does indeed appear to be the case.

This raises a couple interesting questions:

First, why didn’t I know this? I know everything. I especially know everything about names. I know, for example, that Meat Loaf was born Marvin, Sting, Gordon, and that that the Wiz’s number 4 spells his first name Antawn because of a typo (I did not know, however, that his middle name is Cortez – which it is). The only explanation I can come up with is that prior to the Heat winning the title last year – and even, to be honest, after – I hardly realized Miami had a professional basketball team (though that Real World season was great).

Second, is Dwyane a common spelling or did The Wades call an audible? The answer is distinctly the latter. Not a single American male with the first name Dwyane was recorded in the 1990 census (“Dwayne” was the 256^th most common name). Likewise, according to the Social Security Administration, “Dwyane” was not among the 1000 most popular baby names of 1982, Wade’s year of birth (“Dwayne,” however, was 241^st, just behind “Karl” and four slots ahead of “Chase”).

Third, where would we be had the parents of other NBA players shown the same sort of endeavor with the spelling of their children’s first names? Well, we’d be watching the likes of Lbreon James, Rshaard Lewis, Craon Butler, Kird Nowtizki, Yelk Korver, Sucram Camby, Neord and Varmin Williams, and, of course, the rock-up-front-that-is-Netlo Brand.

I have to think that somewhere up there Chick Hearn is breathing a sigh of relief.

Cheers!

TGB

Welcome, Again

2006-11-23T10:09:00.000-08:00

Here's to a maiden voyage that just might be the second coming. We're funny, informed, and of course good looking. We consider basketball the most meaningful part of our lives, but we're knowledgeable in other topics as well. And by "knowledgeable," we mean more knowledgeable than you.

May the best of our past be the worst of our future. Enjoy.

The Gumbel Bros and Tragic Johnson