Permanent Louts

Recording on Monday night, Shoals joins Dan, which is nice, considering all the other podcasts he’s been on lately.

Since Shoals already talked about Gil plenty, we try to find other things to talk about. And we succeed!



First, we talk about whether or not the Celtics are bullies. This leads to a long discussion of Kevin Garnett and his antics/tactics. Again, we recorded this on Monday night. It was before this poll was released voting KG the NBA’s worst trash talker.

Now, we’re not saying we had anything to do with the way the poll came out, just so that our conversation would seem that much more relevant. We would never say that. That’s not the kind of thing we say out loud.

There is also some discussion of long losing streaks, the joys of following mediocre teams when they win, complaints about work, and a history lesson for Dan.

Since this was recorded on Monday there was no talk of the earthquake in Haiti. NBA Cares is supporting the relief effort, and if you can help, even a little, it is needed.

Songs from the episode:

“Walk and Talk (Demo)” - Velvet Underground
“Bad Touch Example” - Company Flow
“Career Finders” - Perceptionists
“A Tender History in Rust” - Do Make Say Think

Hey! You! Subscribe via iTunes!

Celebrate the New Dark Age

The New York Times recently ran an interesting article checking in on Jeremy Tyler, the 6-11 eighteen year old who one upped Brandon Jennings by not only bypassing college, but also his senior year of high school, to play professionally overseas. Tyler landed in Israel, where his experience has made Jennings's time in Italy look like a vacation by comparison. Indeed, the most striking thing about the article is how Jennings, now five games into his NBA career, is already perceived as a success story. Much was made last year about Jennings struggling with the transition and playing sparingly for Lottomatica Roma, but everything’s changed now that he's locked down the starting point guard job for the Bucks, while averaging 18.4 ppg, 4.4 apg, and 4.4 rpg and looking like the early favorite for Rookie of the Year.

The moral of the story seems to be that, if you're willing to suck it up and adhere to European basketball's bizarre notions of team play for a year (or in Tyler's case, two years), then NBA stardom awaits. Sonny Vaccaro, the evil genius behind both players' decisions, stated the matter more bluntly by praising Jennings's willingness to "shut up and learn." Tyler, by contrast, has reportedly demonstrated the kind of immaturity and whiny entitlement that most people seem to expect from today's teenager. If Tyler fails, it may jeopardize Vaccaro's plans and those of his partner in crime Jeffrey H. Rosen. Rosen has great plans for turning his Israeli pro team Maccabi Haifa into "the preferred destination for American prodigies who want to skip college" and ultimately "a global media presence." Shades of Saperstein.



Last week, Latavious Williams added a new wrinkle to the discussion by becoming the first high schooler to be drafted by the NBDL. Williams had already done several other things you do when you're a high school basketball star with bad grades and low test scores: go to prep school for a year, commit to Memphis, and explore the option of playing overseas. It turns out no foreign team was interested in the raw combo forward whom Scout.com rated the 52nd best player in the class of 2008, so the DL and its $19,000/year contract was the only option left. Since it's unlikely Williams will ever play in the NBA, he is more of a sad anomaly than a legit test case.

Current college freshmen John Wall and Renardo Sidney are better examples, since both have the skill, size, and athleticism that the NBA actually wants. Wall was rumored to be exploring the option of going overseas, but ultimately decided to play for Kentucky, which under Calipari is kind of like playing professionally while getting to stay in the country. (Lexington is also the likely destination of Michael Gilchrist, currently a high school junior and widely considered to be the best player in the nation. Oh, and he happens to be a close family friend of Worldwide Wes.) Sidney also selected an SEC school, Mississippi State, after most every other school backed away, out of concern about Sidney's amateur status possibly being compromised. Unsurprisingly, Sidney has still not been cleared to play this season by the NCAA, and Wall's status is similarly muddy.



Wall and Sidney's situation is a reminder that Jennings was also scheduled to play collegiately (at Arizona) before the NCAA flagged his test scores, thus setting into motion Vaccaro’s machinations. It’s worth mentioning here that KG was also planning to attend college (at Michigan or maybe UNC, depending on whom you talk to) before test scores derailed his plans and made him the next gen Moses (Malone), leading a generation of high schoolers into the promised land. Remember, also, that according to the NCAA record books, Derrick Rose never played in the national championship game, because someone else took his SATs for him. To a man, these players were willing (and even wanted) to go to college, but were prevented from doing so by either low test scores or, in the case of Wall and Sidney, unsavory associations. If Garnett or Jennings had been allowed to go to college, it’s not difficult to imagine them extolling the experience and continuing to take classes the way Durant and Oden have. So, when we talk about these issues, we need to reconsider whether players are going overseas to chase the money or because the NCAA forced them out. The answer, in most cases, is probably both.

So whither Wall and Sidney? If they are ultimately cleared by the NCAA, they play a year of college basketball, increase their brand awareness, and enter next year’s NBA Draft as known commodities. But, if they aren’t, then what? Since I assume they’ve been accepted as students by their universities, they could continue to take classes and work out individually, but that seems unlikely. A last minute pro contract overseas, a stint in the NBDL buoyed by sneaker money, or maybe an agent-sponsored residency at somewhere like the IMG Academy is more like it. Maybe the humiliation of being effectively kicked out of school would give them the motivation to succeed where Tyler has thus far failed. And if it works out for them, who could blame the next hoops prodigy for wanting to follow in their footsteps and stay clear of all the NCAA drama?

Sit and Think with a Drink about How We've Won

In no way does this make me exceptional, but I’ve reached a point in life during which I am consistently reminded about my age. (To be exceptional, I’d have to be able to fondly recall Adrian Dantley with Yasser Arafat while in an Upper West Side synagogue.)



I refer to childhood touchstones that elicit blank stares from my law-school classmates, among whom important things such as Voltron do not resonate. Playing sports for too long makes my right knee hurt. My favorite music was released about fifteen years ago, when I was in high school. Prospective employers ask me why I’ve already switched careers twice. (To become NBA commissioner. Duh.) Almost all of my long-time friends have recently gotten engaged, married, gay, or gay and married. I am 28 years old.

My early and mid twenties were spent obstinately trying to prevent this time from arriving. I would bristle if anyone referred to me as an adult and cite adolescent children as my emotional peers. A birthday was the most depressing moment of any year. All the while, I quietly conceded the inevitability of aging, and even regarded myself as magnanimous when I realized, early last fall, that upon leaving behind a developed adult life in New York for a second try at high school in Missouri, I was happy to be a grown-ass man. It was the sort of calm revelation that surprises before instantly settling as obvious. I parked a car which I leased in my own name, walked into an apartment fully decorated with furniture I assembled on my own, and willingly opened a book about contracts so that I might get ahead. Measured risk, self-sufficiency, responsible choices--I had arrived.

It’s not all cardigan sweaters, warm milk, and world weariness, of course. I exuberantly run around school in a unicorn shirt on days when my flag football team has a game. I like going to Olive Garden’s never-ending-pasta-bowl nights and telling dirty jokes with the waitresses. The flag of piracy still flies from my mast. And let’s be real: 28 isn’t 78; that’s a destination not even on the horizon.



Romanticizing youth and mourning age are equally easy. Appreciating an ongoing transformation is somewhat harder. That’s why I am taking this moment to welcome back our beloved Association with my enthusiasm, normally so loudly pronounced, somewhat muted by reflection.

The build up to this season has been a quiet time for me. Entrenched stars of the new establishment--LeBron, and Dwyane, and Chris, and Dwight--are thrilling. For a number of them, the questions focus on when they will cross the threshold of all-time greatness. The excitement they’ll offer is assured. Yet the ascendancy (if they even remain ascendant) of these post post-Jordan saviors necessarily implies that they have passed by their predecessors. Predecessors with whose legacy the public remains uneasy, and who will collectively be remembered by history for having carried the burden of redemption after Michael. With this class of tortured heroes in mind, opening night is shaping up to resemble a reunion down the line more than a first day of classes. A generation that defined not only the NBA’s post-Jordan growth but also my own personal transition is coming to its end. This year feels like a gathering valedictory.



There are the accomplished folks, those who adhered to their stated intentions and are celebrated for making it: Tim, now hobbling more noticeably but not quite ready to submit; Kevin, whose protestations to the contrary cannot fully mask the wear and tear; Kobe, with nothing left to prove; Jason, timeless in his own way. Perhaps Shaq (though as the years accumulate, he increasingly seems like his own era, in some ways, both for chronological and stylistic reasons). There are the fuck ups, too. The kids who squandered their potential or never really had any. Some of them won’t even show: Glenn, Keith, Tim, Ron, Steph.

And then there are so many others whose stories defy neat categorization and whose appearances at the function engender polite admiration but also unavoidable disappointment. Think of the ambivalence, the confusion, the mixtures of conditional praise we’ll conjure as we see Ray Ray, Tracy, and Paul again. Or Grant, Sheed, J.O., Vince, and Chauncey. Anyone know if Antoine and Stack are coming? And, of course, Allen. A.I. will be the dude who could show up in any condition, and it wouldn’t be surprising after all that’s been done, seen, and heard.

We are about to embark upon an era’s denouement. Preseason forecasts have made a similar declaration in recent years, but this season is different. To start, the 2009 playoffs were almost exclusively owned by the next generation. Even the old-NBA Celtics were dominated by their emerging point guard, he of this burgeoning oligarchy. Old-NBA Kobe Bryant won, but he played for history. What greater validation could there have been than the immediate, reflexive glances backwards? The Lakers’ title, won with Pau and Bynum, may have portended continued success, but more than anything, it was about Bryant’s legacy.

Moreover, the NBA players drafted in the mid and late nineties have themselves conceded that this will be the end. Roscoe went to Boston to mount a final championship push before KG’s knee fully gives out and injuries and age weather Ray and Paul Pierce to the point of dullness. The Spurs added Richard Jefferson because biding time and playing for the tomorrow of 2010 is apparently not a luxury which Tim Duncan can afford. Vince has embraced third-option status on a Magic team that is almost entirely powered by an engine of the new NBA. Allen Iverson has devolved into a Memphis sideshow attraction. Elsewhere, older stars of the soon bygone era are reliant upon their younger teammates: Chauncey needs Carmelo; Nash and Grant Hill need Amare; Jermaine needs Dwyane; Tracy needs to retire; Shawn Respert needs food. Even Shaq--Shaquille O’Neal!--needs no less than LeBron James.



So I have reached yet another reminder of my age. The suddenly old guard begins to fade along with my youth; the league evolves along with my fan perspective.

Kevin Garnett was drafted during the summer before I entered ninth grade. I was thirteen, and I vividly remember running to the telephone at summer camp to discuss the draft with my father. As any barely pubescent, aspiring NBA savant might have, I diligently regurgitated everything I’d read in the newspaper as though they were my own opinions. “Garnett’s supposed to be really good, and really versatile,” I said. “He’s straight from high school, too. That’s young!” I exclaimed, a full four years away from being draft eligible myself (you know, had I been a better player). I didn’t know it at the time, but Garnett’s arc as a player, like the larger narrative about his generation, would go on to mirror my fan identity.

Weaned on an Association dominated by Jordan and populated by the legendary bumper crop of hall-of-fame players who debuted in the middle and late 80s, as an adolescent I greeted the NBA with wonderment and an expectation of excellence. I assumed that the league’s trajectory would remain on the growth course it enjoyed as my fan consciousness emerged during my formative years.

Over time, my evergreen enthusiasm for the sport mixed with an understanding of the athletic, social, cultural, and market forces surrounding the league. It was natural; I grew up. I remained committed, but I steadily understood a much larger experience that accounted for everything else in the basketball realm. For instance, adoring the NBA was not universal, I learned. Plenty of fans were disenchanted, frustrated, indifferent. Likewise, my take on player transactions, the sport’s mechanics (don’t bring the ball down, big man!), and the business of basketball all grew deeper, adding layers sometimes in conflict.

The NBA is no less fun for me now. I continue to hoot and holler at my television, or evangelize on Twitter about the glory of Chris Douglas-Roberts. But I also see a broader image than the one to which I clung as a child. The officiating can be awful. The sneakers aren’t what they once were. The access to players is much better. And so forth. A panoramic approach affords the opportunity to dwell upon what’s passing while still being excited about what remains going forward.



It has been no different for the generation we will soon lose. Folks looked to Garnett and his peers to continue the work Michael et al. started, growing the sport’s popularity and elevating its execution. The “Next Jordan” basketball hype that seemed to swirl endlessly alongside the manic search for expanding revenue asked this new class of NBA players to meet an unrealistic standard. When stories about prep-to-pros players and increasing athleticism grew stale, when it became clear that Michael was an exception and not a new rule, the narrative twisted. Over time, it cast KG and those of his era as inadequate, no matter how intrinsically great the accomplishments.

Arguing about whether the characterization of inadequacy is just or not has grown tedious. Without judgment, we can likely all agree that the Kevins, the Tims, and also the Mercers, came to the NBA under the weight of great expectations, carved out an epoch with many more shades of gray than expected, and now begin their departure worn by highs and lows. As I said, this progression isn’t so different from that of the innocent fan whose appreciation and cynicism both grow over time, leaving him free to relish the good and understand the bad.

But, for being a vessel; for being a companion; for living our progress--for these things, this group of departing players deserves our attention. These players facilitated growth, served as reliable friends in a way, and were, in part, projections of fandom. They are less heroic but more human. Accordingly, those of my age group surely must take a moment as the NBA again approaches to consider fully what it means for the era of our definition to be winding down. The trumpets heralding a new regal class will still be echoing when we finish.

Hide Ya Face

If you've not yet done so, please read Shoals's nearly perfect articulation of Ron Artest. As I think about the piece, I like it even more for having been posted during the nation's birthday weekend. Seems like a subtle, even if unintended, ribbing for all of Ron's self-righteous detractors. He enjoys freedom and opportunity in this land, too.

Also, please check the latest recommendations posted in the Amazon widget along the right side of this page. Clicking through means good things for FD, for the products endorsed, for Amazon, and for your karma. Just clicking through before buying something else is helpful. The karma bit's been verified by science, by the way.

If ever there were a summer made for Rasheed Wallace, this is the one. The draft yielded few sure vessels of transformation, and free agency has mostly offered existing contenders new resources for strengthening their positions. (Unless folks are expecting exuberant Turkish people to help push Toronto to the top of the Eastern Conference.) Should it actually arrive, enabled by The 2010 Free Agent Class and a coming draft haul expected to greatly exceed that from last month, the much-discussed New League Order remains at least a year away. For the time being, teams with stars, systems, and identities all firmly established are jostling to find the element that will deliver a championship. Rasheed Wallace is playing with house money as these squads gamble.



We already know that history is likely to speak ill of Roscoe. It will harp upon his volatility. It will almost jeer as it calls him an underachiever. And it surely will subsume his contribution to Detroit's recent championship, bundling it with "however" and "if only" while emphasizing the technicals and the meltdowns. Rasheed will go out as grousing, mercurial, unreliable. His enormous talents will only damn him, as the critics, whose voices appear to ring loudest, cite his gifts as evidence of the disappointment he's authored. We need not even wait for validation; already, the historic Portland collapse from 2000 is an iconic moment for all the wrong reasons. A family man, a concerned member of his communities, a thoughtful fellow--makes no difference. Rasheed is nonetheless cast as the embodiment of failure, a source of the Jail Blazer malignancy and a paradigm of the problematic NBA player.

Rasheed's story would be different had he won more, or, in the alternative, had he been a lesser talent. Fair or not, he has been crushed by falling bricks from the crumbling foundation laid by expectation. The popular story of Roscoe never cares to take up trifling details such as his natural deference, or his preference for serving as an equal and not a star. Our sports culture so thoroughly disdains "wasting" talent that Rasheed Wallace's career is almost wholly anathema. People see his gorgeous jump shot, his facility near the basket, his technical proficiency and deride him as disinterested, insincere, or straight up idiotic. They observe that he's among the most gifted on-ball post defenders in memory, or they recognize his basketball intelligence, and they seethe that he's not nearly effective enough. For years, Wallace was supposed to mature into a leading man on par with players who share his physical prowess. Players like Timothy D and Kevin. Yet, he didn't, and the convention that reviles Wallace never allowed for a reconciliation of Roscoe's game and the ways we watch basketball. So Rasheed has enjoyed most-hated-on status.

Were sports dialogue less rigid, were attitudes more malleable, Rasheed may have had a chance. Rather than damning Wallace for what he isn't, we might have instead appreciated the intrinsic value of a diverse and refined skill set. Roscoe is fun to watch. Further, Roscoe hints at new possibilities, perhaps more than any other big man. Kevin Garnett, for instance, is many things, but a reliable post scorer and a three-point threat are not among them. Dirk Nowitzki, too, is many things, but an athletic and crafty defender has yet to appear on anyone's scouting report. Somehow, Rasheed doesn't get credit for what he is, nor, more rhapsodically, for what he's shown someone else might be. Seeing him score from the outside before drop-stepping and fading his way to more points on the next possession fairly invites the question of why he doesn't score more often, or more reliably. That said, more creative sports thinking could perhaps allow this inquiry to exist alongside greater admiration for Roscoe's game. Only, that's not how the world works. The emphasis, instead, is on how far he remains relative to where he is supposed to be.

Rasheed bears some blame, of course. His flare-ups have been counterproductive, and shameful moments like Game 6 against Cleveland three seasons ago strike at whatever sympathy his personality, history, and style encourage. Be moody. Reject that talent carries with it a mandate to aspire for greatness. But don't flout obligations, or punk out in such explosive, consuming fashion. Boorishness leads to anger. In that way, Roscoe has invited some scorn.



Miscreant or misunderstood, fairly criticized or unfairly villified, Sheed is most certainly not a superstar. He would likely be first to say so. He is, instead, a highly skilled complementary player, albeit one whose natural gifts are vast but not focused in the way that separates Kobe from Pietrus. As noted, this is the summer of Wallace's dreams.

On Wednesday, Roscoe officially signs up with the Celtics. The idea is that a healthy Kevin and the improved frontcourt depth which Rasheed creates will elevate the Celtics above the Cavs and the Magic, to say nothing of the Lakers. Rasheed will arrive to find a team with a leader (or three), a pecking order, a coach who juggles personalities, and a system. He is being added as Rasheed Wallace, Missing Link, not Rasheed Wallace, Primary Element. When he arrived in Detroit, despite assuming a role in the starting lineup and immediately becoming a prominent figure, he enjoyed similar luxuries. The Pistons had two guards who ran the offense and the team. The Pistons had a defensive anchor whose effort forbade anyone else from taking plays off. And--without rendering judgment about his disposition or playing the right way--the Pistons had LB, in all his lugubrious glory. (OK, so I judged his personality a little.)

In the D, Sheed wasn't asked to be "the leader" and wasn't asked to be "the guy" in a basketball sense. He was asked to assimilate--something he does well, as he's quite bright--and find ways to use his enormous ability in complementary fashion. Without compromising who he is, Wallace helped the Pistons win one title and come within a bad fourth quarter of repeating the next year. Perhaps it wasn't coincidental that the Pistons fell off as the coach left, the defensive anchor left, the point guard started to wear down, and more was quickly demanded from Rasheed. Judge Wallace as you will, but teams commonly cannot succeed when its players are asked to do things beyond their capabilities and comfort zones. That doesn't excuse untimely technicals, but it does, as usual, answer the more thoughtless dismissals that Wallace simply didn't fulfill his potential. For a time, he did. When those expectations grew outsized, he couldn't meet them and the team withered.



Awarding the 2010 championship to Boston on July 6th would be a little silly. Let's not do that. But let's acknowledge that Boston may be adding the most gifted role player of all time. And there is no intended shame in that distinction: as just noted, Roscoe knows the role he wants and has proven that he can acquit himself well when properly cast. In Boston, he will be afforded the opportunity to again demonstrate what he does, and how he best does it. A championship is not likely to undo all of the harm his reputation and legacy have incurred, but he might be able to affix some lasting repairs.

The question of temperament can't be avoided, so we should dwell upon that for a moment. Rasheed erupts sometimes. It will inevitably happen in Boston. (Can't wait to see how Boston treats such a flamboyant, on-court-angry black man if things don't go as planned.) But, is there anyone who credibly can argue that Sheed's temper will be a problem? When he has to walk back to a huddle which features a man who matched Kobe's playoff intensity while in street clothes, and probably while seated on his couch last month? Kevin Garnett will not suffer fools, distractions, or undermining tantrums. If anything, the rest of the league should be terrified. Combining Rasheed's indignation and KG's fury might resemble what would happen if the sun made a nuclear weapon and detonated it inside of a 100 supernovas. The entire Warriors backcourt could be blown off the court by the force of the energy. Also, if you can buy stock in something like "'motherfucker' being uttered in Boston," now might be a good time.



We are at a moment when the thrust of NBA activity centers around filling in at the margins and finding that last required piece. Sheed's been here, waiting for us to acknowledge this need. Everyone should let him do it.

Slip Not on My Tears as You Dance

First order of business: if you have not yet done so, please listen to this week's installment of FreeDarko Presents the Disciples of Clyde NBA Podcast. Shoefly was in the house as a guest on the show. Also, don't forget some of his excellent recent updates at Boxiana.

Second order of business: what follows is a reflection upon a changing of the NBA guard. Make note that it was wholly conceived independent of Shoals, who has made reference to and advanced a similar theory. He can, and surely will, better explain his take on it at a later date. Among other things, he's smarter than I am. But please know that this post reflects no collaboration or previous discussion.

Third order of business: you may know me from Straight Bangin', and as a sometime FreeDarko guest lecturer. Well, I have an account over here, now, and will be doing some writing. I hope that preempts any confusion. Onward...


This postseason, there is much to celebrate, what with the revelations that Denver is not Denver this year, Dallas is a new version of the old Dallas, and Kobe vs. LeBron is seemingly swelling toward a crest. Plus, we’ve received the usual glimpses of exciting youth, this year provided by Philadelphia (again), Chicago, and Portland (sort of). We also have the tabula rasa of Houston’s impending participation in a second round: it is either a fairy tale about Yao’s quiet fortitude and the harnessing of new, quirky powers (who knew Aaron Brooks would be this way?), or it is the latest cause for lamentation as we continue to chronicle the heartbreak that is Tracy McGrady. We might even add that these playoffs, so far, stand as a refutation to the tired criticism that the NBA is solely a league of isolation and one over five. To the contrary, while stars continue to shine bright, it is readily apparent that it takes a real team to win. Were it otherwise, Orlando wouldn’t be mired in panic, and New Orleans wouldn’t be an afterthought. (Maybe this makes Dwyane Wade even more impressive.)

That’s all good, however, it’s not most pressing in my mind. This is almost surely a function of my rooting interests, but these playoffs, through two weekends, have taken on an elegiac tone that cannot be escaped. I am enticed by the good, of course, but I’ve found myself dwelling on the bad. Or, really, the sad.


(props to nahright)

2009 marks the end of an era in the NBA. Some would argue “error” (zing!), but nonetheless, caring about the Pistons and Spurs was a rite of spring that is suddenly useless. The Spurs will soon be over, either now or in the next round, most likely. The Pistons are surely over. Their twin demises are not shocking, but now that they’ve arrived, the reality is somewhat jarring. I’d fallen into the habit of caring about these teams, of considering these teams, of closely watching these teams. That’s no longer necessary, and that’s weird. The Spurs and Pistons have served as barometers for the league this decade. We’ve calibrated our beliefs about worth and value using those heretofore enduring measuring posts. You don’t just switch off the gold standard to something else and not notice. You know?

But it’s bigger than those two teams, even. Kevin Garnett, who long suffered from knee problems that are degenerative and won’t just get better with surgery and rest, is not a part of the playoffs. It’s a sad portend of his coming decline, as his departure from our regular consideration will draw to a close a period of NBA history when a league of brand names grown in college started regularly running into the newjacks who short circuited the process. Beyond the obvious lessons taken from that merger of those disjointed cultural norms, Garnett had special meaning, because he was almost a template for a new kind of fan relationship with players. Without college incubation, Garnett’s growth as a person and a player was harder to discern, and to predict. But his youth, which served as his defining characteristic having never gone to college, also invited fans to care about him in a different sort of way. At least, that’s how I felt. I so desperately hoped for his success because I thought he needed it. He was just a kid. Actually, he was Da Kid, which seems even more apt when Garnett is cast in this light.

But it’s bigger than KG, too. Allen Iverson effectively played his way out of NBA relevance this year, and the consensus appears to be that he won’t be coming back. Iverson, too, was a certain sort of paradigm who marked the shift in the NBA. The interregnum between Magic-Larry-Michael and LeBron-Wade-Paul-Howard may not have clean dividing lines, and its leading historical stars may be Shaq, Tim Duncan, and Kobe, but Iverson, more than anyone else, was clearly of that time. He arguably was that time, his body, itself, standing as a testament to a change in the Association. He’s now gone, an absence made even more conspicuous because his team has chosen to play without him.



To all of these reasons for mournful reflection, we might add a contemporary sadness: Dwight Howard. Blaming him for Orlando’s feebleness, and almost palpable panic, may not be fair. He was terrible in Game Two, but he’s otherwise played well. And yet, it seems impossible to not be angry at him, and disappointed in him. Some of it may be our fault. Since August, we’ve deified him, almost willing the manifestation of his potential. And he obliged in every way--he was stellar on the floor, he grew as a player, and he seems to have no limits as a personality. That may have simultaneously neglected his shortcomings and set unrealistic expectations. Let’s be straight up: for all of his muscular excitement, Dwight has few moves and no jumper. He hit two big free throws in crunch time last night, but he’s far from reliable at the stripe. With a smaller man pinned at the basket, the Defensive Player of the Year couldn’t find a way to prevent the game-winning layup. And on a team that was so clearly jittery in the clutch, he did little to mollify nerves. Reading that back makes me depressed. That’s the problem. He’s not where I want him to be yet.

Kind of like these playoffs. For as much good as we’ve seen, there’s been an equal amount of bad. At least, for me, there has been. It’s an odd duality well captured by the Celtics, in fact. As sad as it is to watch Kevin Garnett reduced to the world’s most profane, best-dressed cheerleader, Rajon Rondo’s playoff performance has been a sensational counter, offering the sort of boundary-challenging performance we like to celebrate and mythologize. Of course, it likely comes from necessity precisely because Kevin is hurt. I don’t think one necessarily trumps the other, but this year, the bad seems to be a consequence of the good in a way that’s more pronounced than usual.

You're Podcastcic!

You can't handle it. New episode of "FreeDarko Presents the Disciples of Clyde NBA Podcast" that feature appearances by myself, Dr. LIC, and our good friend Joey, who hid from his heritage by refusing to reveal his last name. Topics covered include the good and bad of the Bron/Wade/Kobe triumverate, other examples of the Beijing Effect, how pleasant it is that no one's tanking, and LeBron's disco essence.



As a public service, here's a playlist of the music used in the show:

"Everything's Ruined" - Faith No More
"I Really Love You" - The Ambassadors
"Assassins" - Geto Boys
"Dr. Handy's Dandy Candy" - Jim Ford"
"Nothing Comes to a Sleeper (But a Dream)" - Sam Dees
"Duel" - Madlib
"If You're Ready (Come Go With Me) - Staple Singers

Oh, and them DoC boys can write a little, too. Check out this extensive post on a playoff scenario that now won't happen, which caught my eye immediately with its 1980's DC reference in the title. Also, if you're in Chicago, go see Dan's play.

-Some other odds and ends: Not much to say about Garnett. I don't want to say he's dead to me, but I've got zero emotion invested in him or his career at this point. And I like the idea of the Celtics falling out of the picture early, not out of bitterness, but because I don't want to have to hear about them. That said, this makes Round One into THE RONDO/ROSE SHOWDOWN TO END ALL AGES AND FOREVER, which oddly has me stoked about a Boston playoff series.

-I only found out today that the playoffs actually start Saturday, not Sunday. As I mentioned, I'm co-giving this paper at EMP on Saturday (panel is "Disembodiment," where Dave Grubbs will upstage the fuck out of me, I'm sure). However, on Saturday there's the aforementioned Chicago/Boston intrigue; our chance to see just how hard Bron brings it from the first possession, against the Pistons, no less; Dallas/San Antonio I'm find with missing, but I have all sorts of obligations to pay attention to Portland/Houston, where there's oh so much at stake. While I just happened to cop a DVR this week, I'm still a little overwhelmed. Help me deal!

-And yeah, the store is on fire, sales abound, and our hella fresh Kevin Durant tee should be flying on a flagpole somewhere. Play us a visit, you won't be sorry.

Can He Get a Witness?

Right before the regular season ends, FreeDarko pays cloth-y tribute to Kevin Durant's mammoth sophomore campaign . . . and the relative obscurity he's toiled in. Maybe if we move enough of these, he'll get on national television for 2009-10.

Some other store news: Based on popular demand, we've done up limited prints of a few more portraits from the book: Kevin Garnett, Lamar Odom, Ron Artest, and Joe Johnson. We're offering two special deals with these: if you buy two, you get a third free. Or, for those with an excess of wall space or love for the NBA, there's the option of all nine portrait prints for $250.

Be sure to weigh in on the latest version of the Z-graph, and tune in Thursday for another episode of our brand news joint venture podcast. I feel like a fucking octopus right about now.

In Case You Need Clone Us

Here's me, Big Baby, and Silverbird giving it our all at Gelf's Varsity Letters reading. My wardrobe is amazing, but only becomes readily apparent toward the end. That alone is reason enough to suffer through the gladness.

This snow in Seattle is really fucking with me, as are my dead-whale-like sinuses. So I will keep these two thoughts brief:

-I really, really hope Rajon Rondo doesn't turn into Tony Parker, because he's every day now getting closer to what I'd imagined he could be. It's almost making me enjoy KG again, somehow, like they connect on a special level when they make eye contact. And that will be the foundation going forward. Is it at all possible that Rondo is bringing out things in Garnett? Or is this all in my head, about context and connotation, and so on.

-The Felton to Golden State rumor: I could see Brown wanting Wright. More likely, though, is that he's after Randolph, for the same reason the Bobcats drafted Ajinca and traded for Diaw. He is rounding up all weird, confounding, multi-skilled big men to exterminate their kind once and for all. Larry Brown's last and greatest contribution to the league will be mass murder, even genocide, in the name of the Right Way.

Next to that, the Warriors playing three PG's at once, plus Stephen Jackson, seems trivial.

ULTRA-SUPER BULLETIN: It's being reported some places that I wrote that Farmar "doesn't look like a Jew." I never said that and never would. That doesn't even make sense, especially coming from someone who gets mistaken for a lot of things other than Jewish.