Bend String on Zither

It is with great weariness that I begin this post on Michael Beasley and his rehab situation. I feel like I already pushed forth the envelope of flippancy in my Baseline post on the matter (damn, that works well in a self-referential sense). Maybe too far if it turns out that Beasley gobbling down pills or fall-down drunk all the time.

But when we posted that tattoo twit on Friday, the bags didn't even cross our mind. Maybe we're content to call a bag a bag; maybe we just were't super-scanning the background for too-thrilling data on what a 20 year-old millionaire does in an empty hotel; maybe we know that Beasley probably smokes and plays video games in all his spare time, but just didn't care. Whatever our over-liberal reasoning, the next morning it turned out we'd missed out on a MONSTER SCOOP: Michael Beasley photographed himself with pot-a-phenalia. What a moron.

What became difficult to discern in the flurry of typing that followed was whether Beasley was 1) in the wrong for smoking 2) was dumb for getting caught 3) needed to avoid all perception of smoking, since he had in the past 4) needed to cover his ass better. I was briefly working on a column that tried to link Beasley to Bolt, explaining how skepticism and suspicion was ruining sports, or at least our consumption of it. Or at least making blogs into speculative, uninformed, worthless tabloids that did little more than all squint at the same blurry image, or process the same publicly available circumstance, before giving voice to the "fan in the streets" or "what the mainstream's afraid to say." An unfortunate blurring of function, if you ask me.



Back to the Beasley at hand. Before the window into his soul—I mean, the Twitter account—hit the deck, Beasley threw out a couple of twits that were equal parts morbid, goofy (if you're threatening to take your own life, please limit the number of exclamation points), off-hand, paranoid, impulsive, and, sorry, but culturally specific. Among the many great contributions Tupac made to the world was the trope of imminent doom, brought about by fame, fortune, public scrutiny, and doing shit to piss people off. I admit that Beasley's twits were erratic, but they also fit readily under this rubric. So there might a matter of cross-cultural mis-communication here.

But hey, today, Beasley's checked into rehab, John Lucas is running the show, and we'll see those "possible substance and psychological issues" scrubbed right out of him! Excuse me if I'm not inclined to take this 100% seriously, especially as Yahoo! also reports that it was Riley who made Beasley 'fess up to his involvement in Rookie Transition-gate well after the fact. Beasley is weird dude, one whose personality makes him a fascinating and frustrating public entity. I can only imagine how it is for a team that's invest millions in him. The same goes for this lingering weed association. Why not attach "troubled" to his name once and for all, throw into rehab, make a show of it, and trot him out for 2009-10 with a firm sense of how he's supposed to conduct himself as a pro?

Except that's not what rehab's about. And "troubled" shouldn't simply mean "wacky" or even "pot smokin'." This might be a stigma that haunts Beasley for life, all in the name of public presentation couched in the language of "possible substance and psychological issues." That's the matter-of-fact take on it. There's also the rather ghastly thought that Beasley's being poked and prodded in hopes of uncovering some explanation for his behavior, reprogramming him rather than looking to subject him to the ultimate disciplinary sham/PR cover-up. Michael Beasley is young and foolish, but there's no reason to presume he's got loose screws just because he's poorly-behaved and off-kilter. You can tack various degrees of sinister, or ruthlessly capitalistic, to that.



All this goes on the assumption that 1) Beasley is not indeed insane, since anyone who observed him in college can see he's toned himself down even under the greater stress posed by the pros 2) it's only pot, since a coked-out Beasley would be even more of a nightmare, and a Vin Baker-drunk Beasley would probably have gone to sleep in a giant ditch of his own digging by now (I mean that literally, not figuratively). If, however, this is intended to get Beasley help in earnest, the strategy seems awfully sloppy. Sorry, no pothead demands immediate detox. If the loopiness points to anything deeper, wouldn't it make more sense to first just have him talk to a doctor? Oh, I forgot: Whenever a famous person is unwell, or might be, your spirit them away to rehab so the world can't watch, and they can be spared the humiliation of being picked apart any further in public.

Unless I am totally wrong, and Beasley's been shooting speedballs before every game, this a ton of wasted resources, breath, and bed space for a kid whose long-term mental health—whatever its current state—would probably benefit from a vacation and some trips to a psychologist. But rehab sends a message to the world, and to Beasley. Like jail. Never mind that, if someone sick wants to get well, he needs to do so of his own accord. Threatening and intimidating Beasley onto the straight and narrow by making him hear about men who lose everything and spend their mornings looking a vein. . . it's an insult to Beasley, those addicts, and anyone who ends up working on his "case."

Normal people have to undergo some kind of in-house screening before entering a rehab facility. That Beasley got green-lighted immediately, when his situation would seem to demand at least some preliminary treatment before getting recommended for these places. Maybe I'm out of touch with the treatment of addiction, or the best way to deal with a recreational drug user whose behavioral issues only matter because he's a gigantic business asset. It's just hard for me to read this stuff and not laugh at the whole thing, while feeling a little bad for Beasley—who might have missed out on a chance for an appropriate, not nuclear-level, intervention.

All the Wheels of Destiny

First, matters of business:

-Review in today's Play. I refrained from typing that in all caps.

-I don't think we promoted David Wingo's "Macrophenomenal Anthem" enough yet. So listen!

-For whatever reason, the book is temporarily no longer available on Amazon. But there are other options! (UPDATE: Appears to be back.)

Last night was about as rad an evening of basketball as I could mortally hope for. Despite the endless vistas opened up by League Pass, I still try to stick to one game, beginning to end, and usually only one per night. That's about all my brain can stand—I am that super-sensitive, and that easily distracted. But yesterday, I managed to successfully flip back and forth between Hawks/Sixers (which I broke off an Obama volunteer shift to catch) and Heat/Bobcats. And then finish it all off with the last quarter of Bulls/Grizzlies. It was somewhere between the channel-surfing that some are capable of using League Pass for, and seeing it as a chance to create an alternative network slate.

Believe it or not—more me pinching myself than preaching to the converted of this site—I anticipated Hawks/Sixers like it was a "real" game. The Hawks are on the verge of being taken seriously, while I thought Philly's second-half self-discovery in 2007-08 was pretty crude. Brand makes them better, no doubt, but do they inspire fear, or will they be continuing to find their way, both with their new superstar and a strategic approach that needed some fine-tuning. Not to get all recap-y here, but I think Thaddeus Young might be the key to this team's coherency. One more bit of hyperbole: He's what they wish Iguodala could bring to that attack offensively, shooting well and attacking the basket with ranginess and control. Oh and also, he might also be what a lot of us still hope the Hawks got in Marvin, or at least a slimmer version. And this is a cliche for PF's, but Brand is definitely trimmer, and capable of running.

The Hawks, on their end, were a total wreck, not in the least because Smith looked lost and Johnson didn't get off immediately. Twenty-three point deficit at one point. But then—in no particular order—Josh started causing mayhem, which in turn frees him to make threes like they're not forced, and Johnson snuck in there and started hitting shot and after shot. The engine for the Hawks success is pretty simple: Smith has to get himself going, almost internally, by kindling that fire of non-methodical insanity in him that's keyed off by a steal/dunk combo, or something equally outliandish. It's like he's got his own inner crowd to appeal to. At this point, though, that's what it takes to get him in some sort of groove, albeit one that resembles a rash of bad decisions and impetutous leaps. The difference is, he's got that zone where they aren't forced, where the risks and illogical "huh?" moments are actually his natural rhythm. The problems start when you see him try and follow the kind of script a coach can read to you. Frustrating, I'm sure, but he's a player who needs to erupt in the worst way to matter.



Johnson, on the other hand, sneaks up on you. That's no surprise. But it's also striking how much the Hawks' momentum—incidentally, they ended up coming back and winning this one—is tied up in the Smith/Johnson dynamic. They feed off of each other, but it's not clear if Johnson steps in only when Smith fails utterly, or sneaks in when he see Smith getting off a little, and providing some cover (and needing counter-balance?). I dare say that, whether in success or failure, Smith is the catalyst, but that Johnson is far more reliable, coming through when Smith has either bottomed out or started to really freak out. We can debate the fine points of this, but there's some new kind of metaphysical inside-out game going here. Chaos/order, or something, in both concert and competition. The funny thing is that, by the end, you get them starting to converge. Johnson's looking more and more like someone with twelve sneaker deals, while Smith's settled down a little, deferring to JJ, and exists within some known structure.

Bobcats/Heat wasn't competitive, but represented the revenge of a few key points. Gerald Wallace was the Gerald Wallace of old, absolutely indomitable and yet throwing himself around like the lowliest role player of them all. A joy to watch. And what's more, I'm beginning to think he won't end up in LB's doghouse much. He plays hard, makes that extra effort, fights to get into the paint for buckets, and now has a fairly effective outside shot that he deploys with some prudence. That's the Right Way updated for today's modern audience. That team still has troubles, not in the least the fact that few players are as uniquely suited to this synthesis as Wallace. I also find it weird that GW defers to Richardson as the number one option. So best case scenario, the rest of the team struggles to make Brown happy, wins games with defense, and Wallace blazes away the whole time much to our heart's content.

I simply cannot take my eyes off this Heat team, and not just beacuse I picked Beasley too high in our fantasy draft (no Simmons—that was full disclosure). Dr. LIC described them as "scallywags," and while I don't quite know what that means, it captures some of the danger, strangeness, pathos, and stuck-on-a-boat-dying-of-scurvy-but-still-playing-dress-up quality of the team. I know some of you will accuse me of being a faggot for saying this, but Wade has lost all of that robotic quality I once so hated about him. It's not just that he's aggressive, almost recklessn at times—he really plays with feeling, like the whole thing's taken personally. You can tell it by the times he goes out of his way to make a statement dunk. Sometimes he's toying with the opposition, sometimes he's just managing his own emotional equilibrium in the hull of a lost cause. But if there were some kind of index that tracked—pardon my extremely un-PC nomenclature— "soul," in the "some have it, some don't" usage that's more refined and basic than evoking afros and slang—he's passed LeBron at this point. Maybe "soulfulness" is better.



I have no idea what's going on with Marion, who half the time seems intent on feigning decline, or a kind of confusion we rarely saw from him in Phoenix. Chalmers + Wade = solid, and I wish they'd euthanize Marcus Banks. Sometimes this team feels like you're watching something dramatically new, and others, it feels so bootleg, so corrosively silly, that you'd best turn away before you use lose all perspective all the game. Like the glorious 2006-07 Warriors without the undeniable fireworks.

The real draw for me, though, is Beasley. After that crappy opener, he's turning into a frightfully efficient scorer, living off a combination of mid-range jumpers and strong moves to the hoop that usually involve some added element of finesse or smooth body control. It's almost like he took the "Beastley" game of K-State and shut off the NBA switch. What's startling about him isn't how easily he gets inside, or how hard it is for defenders to anticipate whether he's going hard or soft, but just how much better his judgement seems game-by-game. Still not much more than a scorer who grabs a few boards, and Amare-like, blocks some shots just by being himself. But he's deathly effective at what he does, and I've got to say, at this point looks a hell of a lot better than Durant did this early. And Durant was the messiah. Not to sound like a one-note pony, but I could see Beasley emerge as the kid cousin of today's more versatile, advanced Stoudemire, but with even better people skills. What I wonder is just how much he's changed his game, versus his college narrative of arrogance and egotism falling away.



Which brings me to Derrick Rose, as Ritchie had already suggested I do before I got daylight savings time straightened out and got out of bed to check the computer. Point guards are the new centers, Rose is undeniably for real, and has instantly made Luol Deng whole and Tyrus Thomas not a youthful mistake we have to keep apologizing for. But what fascinates me is how, while Beasley seems to play a less "NBA" game than he did in college, perhaps out of necessity, Rose somehow made a quantum leap to seasoned, splashy pro point guard without barely thinking about it.

That's assuming a lot, but I definitely get the sense that, while Beasley is going the extra mile to show he's not a profligate or time-bomb, as witnessed from game-to-game, Rose just showed up, surveyed his surroundings, and uncorked a whole new dimension to his game. Granted, I didn't watch a ton of Memphis, but I do know that with the Bulls, from second-to-second Rose feels like a top-shelf, in-command, ultra-creative PG—as Dr. LIC hyperbolically put it, a cross between Paul and Williams. Beasley's toned down his game and affect (the threes have disappeared fast) to prove to the NBA he respected it; Rose sees the opportunity to step up and assert himself, since he's in the optimal position to join an elite class.

Rose coming to Chicago isn't quite, as Ritchie suggested, on part with Obama coming to D.C. Sorry. I also don't think that the Bulls have a coherent enough rotation to really make the most of his presence. Look at how carefully constructed New Orleans is, or how the Jazz made a leap last year just by adding Kyle Korver. And I do think that, even if we had gotten to see Oden/Durant unfold, it looks like it would have been a little underwhelming, especially as each would've been deficient at the other's primary end of the court. Rose and Beasley aren't comparable, since Rose is franchise material, whereas Beasley looks to be a force you then have to match an infrastructure to. But if this first week is any indication, two of the raddest players to watch in the league are last summer's 1/2 picks, who are tremendous to watch right now, and whose growth will decide exactly what happens with their imperfect/idiosyncratic teams. Show me a more tantalizing season-long storyline and I'll quit this business right away.