"He Makes Me Wanna Play"

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!

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

‘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

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

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

Zirin's Choice

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?

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

Wire Hanger!

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

The Intellectual Masturbation of John Hollinger

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

Because it's still funny...

In the Spirit of Giving

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...

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!