Since I'm Not Hungover Yet...

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).

1. 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.)
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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...
5. 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

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.

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

‘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

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

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

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?

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 of MJ on 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

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

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

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.