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What Happened to That Boy

The least FD thing about me is that I hate J.R. Smith. Hate him. Despite my predilection toward the Julian Wrights of this world, despite a lifetime spent riding for Scottie Pippen and Tracy, despite my celebration of players who don't so much challenge orthodoxy as introduce their own, I nonetheless carry around an almost ruthless insistence on basketball efficacy. Your shit had better work, or else it becomes less a style, or an innovation, and more a gimmick. Gimmickry is for Asher Roth, Sarah Palin, and Ricky Davis. Like anyone, I can fall hard for the seductive potential of athleticism applied in new directions, and as such, I can wander down the wrong path for some time. But I always come back to the sole criterion from which I never deviate: does your shit work?

J.R. Smith hasn't worked. Year after year, I've been told to brace myself for the coming J.R. Revolution, and it has never arrived. I've been promised breakthroughs--erratic play replaced by consistency, bad decisions displaced by enlightenment, ambivalence about teamwork absorbed into a new-age point guard. I've read and heard everything. Yet, by the second week of May each spring, I've instead found myself swollen with pride while wondering in which empty gym he was presiding over such sweeping, irrelevant change. I never believed in J.R., and I was always vindicated for my assured skepticism. Even when he'd have days, or weeks, or fortnights of inspired play that threatened to carry him from cult worship to mainstream acceptance, I was secure in the knowledge that, ultimately, J.R. Smith didn't work.

Smith has been the perfect Nugget. In every way. The second-least FD thing about me is that I hate Denver. My disdain for Smith runs so deep because it is a microcosm for my zealous loathing of the Nuggets. In this Carmelo Era, Denver has symbolized the sinister potential for self-destruction that is inextricably linked to basketball which challenges the NBA's established models for success. Whereas the D'Antoni Suns or the Davis/Stack Jack Warriors offered tantalizing glimpses at a new order, albeit fleetingly (and, therefore, perhaps not so much true glimpses but, rather, illusions), the Carmelo Nuggets have pursuasively argued against change. This bizarro campaign for something new reached its nadir (perhaps zenith if up is down) last year, when Denver flamed out of the playoffs amidst a conflagration of lazy defense, disorganized offense, and selfish decisions. As I wrote then, it was offensive, with the ugly vainglory and petulance that affirm vexing stereotypes: about the priorities of NBA players; about the mental capacity of these men; about strategy that would wield unfettered basketball as a weapon, rather than fearing it as an undesired outcome. Denver's shit hasn't worked.

I won't front--I've enjoyed watching Denver inflict its own wounds. Not only because I dislike J.R., but because I find George Karl to be sanctimonious in his obvious belief that he serves as a Keeper of the Game. Because no matter how unfair it might be, Kenyon Martin has devolved into a video-game villain, replete with a robotic offensive "skill" set and a seemingly endless penchant for masturbatory mean-mugging. Because Denver-as-Movement somehow became a widespread fiction on par with the hokum that Knicks fans would rather watch a mediocre playoff team than build for a championship future. I could continue, but that seems excessive. It's felt good to stand over this frustrated, seething, volatile mess and gloat in the wake of annual failure brought on by the excess of style, not it's triumph.

Rejoicing in Denver's undoing is not such a lonely pasttime, though, and this season, this postseason, the Nuggets appear to be playing as though they're tired of people like me making fun of them. Really, it's been an almost inexplicable transformation ostensibly brought on by what has previously been diagnosed as one team become decidedly more FD when infused with an un-FD player. As noted:

[Chauncey] Billups, then, is neither too much nor too little of a point guard, and as such is the perfect equilibrium for a Denver team made up of various forms of excess and lack. His job isn't to encourage K-Mart, J.R., and Nene, but in effect, manage them. Neither dashing "floor general" nor feckless "game manager," Billups is entrusted with turning craziness into a useful commodity, ordering and meting it out so that players are compartmentalized without being squelched. Maybe that makes him a lion-tamer, or the guy in charge of The Wild Bunch. Denver may not have the least conventional roster in the league, but it's certainly the most streaky and combustible. Billups can juggle these pieces (one of which is George Karl, natch) through a combination of equanimity and pragmatism.

Denver has transformed from a rambunctious collection of unyielding parts always sabotaged by their own priorities to a spirited collective unrelenting in its pursuit of defiant accomplishment. Does that make sense? It's shit just seems to work all of a sudden, as though the piling on enabled by last year's spectacular failure pushed the Nuggets' capacity for absorbing the bile which fuels self-loathing past a saturation point. Denver has convincingly pulled itself together. Even J.R. is regularly effective, his positive contributions no longer marring a vast landscape of consistent inconsistency. Billups may, indeed, serve as the manager of the team, the one whose judicious decisions enable Denver to be Denver in a good way, and not a bad way. He, an outsider with a pedigree of discipline and a championship background fueled by embracing other-ness, may have identified what I just wrote in his own way. But even acknowledging this likely truth doesn't seem to properly recognize who these Nuggets are.

There was a moment against the Mavericks yesterday when Denver broke its huddle by Karl imploring them to "keep on playing the right way." This "right way," one which had stolen the early lead and momentum from Dallas, consisted of leak outs and aggressive defensive rebounding; of Nene, not always so nimble, swooping to the basket as Dallas looked slow and confused; of Kenyon Martin elbowing anything that got in his way anywhere on the floor; of defensive breakdowns against Dirk rapidly fading amidst retaliatory secondary breaks; of Linas Kleiza taking threes early in the shot clock; of J.R. popping over guys with hands in his face; of Chris Andersen swatting a shot into the fifth row and egging on the crowd in a knowing frenzy. Erick Dampier spent most of the first half falling over himself, and it might have owed to the sort of dimentia which the Nuggets can cause when the unconventional parts are orchestrated in a common direction.

Honestly, this moment was sublime. With its brooding and surly and muscular and wild elements in explosive harmony, Denver was so far afield of anything Larry Brown has ever moaned at any of the players he loves to hate that George Karl, unintentionally, made a mockery of what we attach to the concept of "playing the right way." And yet, it was less farce and more cooptation, because Denver was, in fact, playing the right way. It was playing its right way. It's shit worked.

In the middle of the controlled hysteria, it occurred to me that only on this Denver team could the Birdman be considered the second-least crazy, or second-most normal, player. A man covered in ornate tattoos and hair gel who was probably smoking PCP this morning. But, after Chauncey, who, really, is more standard? Birdman comes off the bench, provides energy, blocks shots, and cleans up garbage at the rim. He's exceptional at what he does thanks to his athleticism and spirit, but still, he's unconventionally good at a fairly conventional role. So is Chauncey. And then...what? You have Nene, who sometimes is dominating, sometimes is involved in a psychodrama, and always seems to be into something. You have K-Mart, for whom the game is incidental in pursuit of reckless conflict. You have Carmelo, who is a sort of reluctant leader who will get to where he needs to be but regularly carves out a circuitous route that wouldn't be advisable for other guys asked to do what he does. You have the journeyman backup point guard who shouldn't even be in the NBA anymore. And, of course, the internets' favorite misunderstood agent of change, J.R. Smith. Seriously, whom else on the team is more "normal" than Billups or Andersen?

All of that captures Denver, now. The Nuggets have inverted a paradox. Or something. They've decided that a half-black bookworm who has an exotic name and no money can be president. It can be perplexing, but it also feels right. The radicalism appears like common sense. Of course that can happen; watching the Nuggets win is almost logical. The manic quality is not gone but is now managed, and each player no longer seems to be united solely by a shared apathy. Without the kind of overhaul or "recommitment" the media usually celebrate and leads to a team like Dalls getting rolled by Golden State, Denver has improved. It's tired of the haters and put its insanity to work. Forever a Nuggets skeptic, I find it awesomely intriguing. I feel like they're spiting me, in particular, and I like it.

[Insert awkward segue here] I also like the perhaps unwitting basketball project that Cam'ron is putting together. Since the start of the year, Cam has created three songs that each name checks a different point guard (something profane this way comes):

Cam'ron, "Cookin' Up" - "I'm Killa/You Andre Miller/Got a Basic Game"

Cam'ron ft. Jadakiss, "Let's Talk About" - "Shootin' in the Miam Heat/Like Chalmers"

Cam'ron, "Silky" - "I'm on Point/Like Rondo"

This has great potential. Let's hope Aaron Brooks plays well against the Lakers.

  

He Was Born in Hell

Everyone I talk to is worried about a anti-climactic contest tonight. Of course, after Thursday, Lazarus making hot chocolate at halftime would be an anti-climax. But even if all we get in a few hours is epilogue, and even if that epilogue is the (expected) Boston win, the convoluted history of this series tells tells us that there's no way it won't be eventful.

Before we all get completely consumed by pre-game hysteria, I wanted to briefly touch on the weird, weird Josh Smith scandal. Smith goes for the showtime dunk, on the break, during a blowout, and fails. He's lambasted for trying to show up or disrespect the Heat, personally apologizes to Coach Spoelstra (who publicly made many of these accusations) and explains that it was just to thank the fans. Confused? You also have Smith saying he'd do it again, and basically agreeing with Jalen Rose's analysis that the problem was the miss, not the attempt itself. Which is to say, he embarassed himself—had he made it, Smith would've had the whole world entranced. The Heat would've come off as petty whiners, or at very least, the dunk would've been so awesome as to insulate itself against criticism.

All this presumes that Smith needs to apologize for wanting to humilate the Heat, or that an insane dunk is purely self-indulgent. Last I checked, intimidation and making statements were really important in basketball, especially in the playoffs. Why, then, is Smith all of a sudden in "unsportsman-like" territory for trying to use a dunk to do just that? It was gratuitous when the Celtics ran up the score, and put on a show, to cap off last year's Finals victory, because in that case the series was over. But this one is still very much alive. Breakaway dunks can be momentum-changers in a game; why not think of this in the context of the series? While games have throat-slash moments, these events can pile up and carry over to the next one, too. The Heat had every right to take Smith's attempted dunk personally, and use it as motivation. That's because he was trying to punk them, put them in their place. That's about basketball, pride, and ego; there's absolutely no need for the finger-wagging and commenters dissecting the ethics of the situation.

It all comes back to this idea of there being "good" and "bad" forms of intimidation, or rather, "acceptable" and "tacky." Tough defense and physical play can throw off an opponent. As can talking. Or throwing down in traffic. Those are fair game in the pressure-cooker of the playoffs. But if Josh Smith goes for the showpiece dunk, it's him, not the Heat, who have some explaining to do? Isn't a long three in transition always outrageous and uncalled for? If I had a penny for every time someone old insisted that teams need to send a message with their defense, I'd be crushed to death. Why then, can't Josh Smith try and say to the Heat "fuck you, I can do whaetver I want against you." Isn't that his whole game? It's up to the other team to keep his one-man momentum bomb under wraps; as one of the studio guys observed in the pre-game last night, Miami immediately let Johnson get away with an uncontested dunk. Are there rules and regulations about when you're allowed to intimidate . . . or does that only apply to individual acts of offense? Because clearly, no one makes a fuss if a team lets up on defense once the outcome's decided. And running up the score can certainly be deployed selectively.

Smith's right—the problem is that he missed. That turned it into something frivolous, a sideshow subject to all sorts of bullshit moral high ground-grabbing. Smith is clueless, spoiled, disorganized, a disgrace to the game because he resorted to absurdity. Why was it absurd and excessive? It failed. If he'd pulled it off, it would be the Heat who would be feeling shame, no matter what the media decided to say about it.

If anyone wants to give him hell, they just focus on what a half-assed effort that was.The angle of approach was all wrong and Smith barely got off the ground. What a dick.

De volta ao passado 6ª edição - Chevrolet Chevelle

Novamente em foco, no filme Velozes e Furiosos 4, sendo pilotado pelo ator Vin Diesel, o Chevrolet Chevelle foi criado visando o publico mais jovem.

Como a Chevrolet em 1963 havia lançado o Chevy II e percebeu que existia uma lacuna no seguimento dos médios. Foi então com receio de perder uma grande fatia do mercado para a Ford, American Motors e Chrysler em 1964 lançou o Chevelle.

O carro veio com muitas variações de versões que incluíam o esportivo SS, o Malibu, o 300, um conversível e uma Perua. E ainda tinha as opções de 2 ou 4 portas uma grande variedade de motores, indo de seis-cilindros básico, com cilindrada de 3,2 a 3,8 litros, V8 de 283 pol3 e até o small block 327, de 5,36 litros, que entregava entre 250 a 300 cv.

No ano de 1965 surge as primeiras modificações, o Chevelle recebe novas lanternas traseiras, uma nova grade e o motor big block, de 6,5 litros. Foi justamente com este motor que ele entra para o Hall dos muscle-cars. O carro era bem visto podia ser usado pela família ou também usado pelos jovens nas provas de arrancadas.

Em 1966 teve seu estilo todo modificado tendo alterações no teto, pára-lamas, grade, faróis e lanternas. Tornava-se mais longo e aerodinâmico.

O SS tinha três opções de motores o L35 básico, de 325 cv a 4.800 rpm e 56,6 m.kgf de torque; o L34, de 360 cv a 5.200 rpm e 58 m.kgf, com um comando mais bravo e carburador de maiores dimensões; e o topo-de-linha L78, de 375 cv a 5.600 rpm e 57,3 m.kgf de torque. Dentro do pacote Z16 havia ainda a opção de tuchos mecânicos, para trabalhar em rotações mais altas, coletores de escapamento redimensionados, válvulas de cabeçote do 427, taxa de compressão de 11:1, coletor de admissão em alumínio e um carburador Holley com capacidade de 800 cfm.

O SS passou a ser chamado de SS 396 para separa-lo dos outros SS’s. Fora redesenhado, com novos pára-choques e duas entradas de ar falsas no capô, que virou marca registrada da versão.

Em 1967 surgiram os novos motores com seis cilindros (3,8 e 4,1 litros), o V8 básico 283 (4,6 litros), passando pelos small blocks 327, de 275 a 325 cv, e as mesmas opções para o 396 (L35, L34 e L78). Pneus mais largos em rodas de 14 pol e freios a disco dianteiros. A transmissão automática Turbo Hydramatic, de três velocidades, passava a ser alternativa à Powerglide de duas marchas e às manuais de três e quatro marchas.

Em 1968 o Chevelle já não tinha semelhança com seus antecessores tinha o capo mais longo, teve o entreeixos reduzido os motores 6 cilindros e V8 continuavam os mesmos, só os small blocks que vieram com algumas diferenças.

Em 1969 surgiu o motor 396 L89, que era o mesmo 396 L78, porém em alumínio. O estilo mudou apenas os pára-choques e os faróis. Os seis-cilindros e o V8 307 continuavam em produção, mas o 327 deixava a linha de todos os Chevrolets para dar lugar ao clássico 350 (5,7 litros), com potência de 250 a 300 cv, este com carburação quadrijet.

Os big blocks continuavam com a denominação 396, embora tivessem sido modificados para 402 pol3 (6,6 litros). A Chevrolet, depois de gastar muito em publicidade, decidiu manter o número, pois a denominação SS 396 estava disponível para todos os modelos, como o Malibu Sport Coupé, o Chevelle 300 com ou sem coluna central e até mesmo o picape El Camino.

O ano de 1970 foi o auge de desenvolvimento do Chevelle. Foi um modelo único, fabricado somente nesse ano, com linhas "musculosas", grade reta com quatro faróis incorporados aos pára-lamas e lanternas traseiras quadradas integradas ao pára-choque.

Todos os motores eram os mesmos, menos o L35, que deixava de ser produzido. Mas passava a equipar o Chevelle um dos maiores big blocks utilizados na indústria até então: o LS5 454 (7,4 litros) de 360 cv a 5.400 rpm e 69,1 m.kgf (500 libras-pé) de torque a 3.200 rpm. Derivado do V8 427, tinha maior curso dos pistões; por isso oferecia menos potência do que o L78 e o L89, mas com mais torque, como preferem os americanos.

Ainda em 1970 o Chevelle ganhava um "irmão" mais elegante: o Monte Carlo. Pensando em retornar às competições, a Chevrolet havia descartado o uso do Impala, pois precisava de um carro menor e mais ágil. Decidiu então desenvolver um duas-portas com sua classe na plataforma do Chevelle de quatro portas. Suas linhas eram elegantes e até hoje possui o maior capô já utilizado em um carro da General Motors.

Em 1971 foi um dos piores para a industria automobilística americana. A poluição nos grandes centros tornava-se preocupante e o governo tomava decisões drásticas. As companhias de seguro estavam muito descontentes com a "febre" dos muscle-cars, carros de centenas de cavalos sob o capô, mas com freios e suspensão subdimensionados, que não raro resultavam em graves acidentes.

Em 1972 a situação ficava ainda mais crítica: a versão SS passava a ser apenas um pacote de opcionais para qualquer Chevelle V8. O resultado podia ser visto em Chevelles SS com motor 307 V8 de 130 cv líquidos. Deve-se observar que, por decisão do governo americano, a partir do ano-modelo 1972 todo fabricante passava a informar a potência e o torque líquidos em vez dos brutos, obtidos segundo a norma J1349 da SAE (Society of Automotive Engineers, sociedade de engenheiros automobilísticos). A mudança, por si só, representava cerca de 35% de redução nos valores numéricos.

Em 1973 marcou o fim da estrada para a versão SS. A popularização do pacote SS fora tal que estava disponível até mesmo para a perua Chevelle de cinco portas. O carro perdia muito em estilo, com linhas nada harmoniosas. O golpe final seria dado com a crise do petróleo naquele ano, abrindo caminho para que os eficientes japoneses tomassem de vez o mercado americano. O L65 possuía apenas 145 cv a 4.000 rpm.

Em 1974 a versão Laguna substituía a SS como topo de linha. Como atrativo trazia os assentos dianteiros giratórios, fazendo do Chevelle mais um carro de luxo no mercado. Apesar disso, as vendas começavam a aumentar por causa de seu retorno às pistas em 1975, quando a Chevrolet colocava no mercado o Laguna S. A maior novidade era o estilo aerodinâmico do capô, antecipando algumas tendências de estilo vistas no Camaro.

Apesar do sucesso nas pistas, que aumentava as vendas com base na filosofia americana do win on Sunday, sell on Monday (vença no domingo, venda na segunda-feira), a prioridade da Chevrolet era conforto, não desempenho. Descaracterizado como produto, a situação continuou até 1977, quando o nome Chevelle deixou de existir, dando lugar ao Chevrolet Malibu. Mais compacto e leve, ele continuou a saga com os derivados do Chevelle, como o El Camino e o Monte Carlo. Este recebia como herança o lugar do Chevelle na NASCAR, a categoria americana de carros de passageiros altamente modificados, posto que ocupa até os dias de hoje.

Fonte

The Gift of Metric Tons

I'm trying to think about comparatively huge moments in NBA history since FD's inception. For Kobe's 81, we went with a visual pun; there may or may not have been paeans to offer, or perhaps that was just the easiest way to avoid some bullshit "did it matter" debate. LeBron's murder of Detroit prompted a treatise on divinity's arrival. The Warriors upset of the Mavs had all sorts of ideological implications, at least for this site. I would provide links for all of this, but I barely have the wherewithal to type this much. Because at the end of the day, that game last night wasn't about one team vs. another, or individual players defining themselves. It was a long, varied, contradictory, increasingly strange and improbable, and then at the end, almost aimlessly miraculous series of basketball tableaux.

Early on, I was wrestling with my inability to criticize Rondo, from the wild foul at the end of Game Five right through the Hinrich assault. By the end, I'd forgotten all about him, and what seemed to matter most was Tyrus Thomas and Joakim Noah lighting the way to the future as much, if not more, than Derrick Rose had since the first half. And then there was Rose with that block, as iconic a play (and call) as I've ever seen (and heard)—an instant snapshot that set up his rivalry with Rondo way more than dueling stats ever could. In between, you had a stretch of Ray Allen, king, and then John Salmons, the possessed. This was the kind of game that defied narrative, at least the linear kind that works best with sports. What are the talking points? The conclusions to draw? All I know is that, when Rose sent that ball back at Rondo, the dynamic between the two was about so much more, and less, then their respective stories. Or even one team refusing to lose, as Rose put it. That, my friends, is basketball refusing to die, which leads it to contort, exploit, and transcend itself like the history of life on Earth.

Leave the tall tales to mankind. This was about a kind of gnashing, terrible, and magical story that's best explained by Darwin or a particle accelerator. For one day, FreeDarko respectfully, and necessarily, will pass the buck to men less tawdry than ourselves. If such a student of basketball does exist.



A couple other things:

-If you want to catch our most raw (pure?) live-blog ever, visit the Twitter record from last night.

-Another epic looms on the sports horizon: Boxiana has been exhaustively surveying this weekend's Pacquiao/Hatten fight. Here's part three; you are also advised to check out its predecessors. Seriously, I only know about three boxers, and this stuff has me considering dropping coin for this fight.

-Not to scare or shock you, but this might be the end of FD as we know it. I can't get into details quite yet, but in the very near future I will be getting a whole lot more busy. Also, this is my fifth season, and playoffs, writing about the NBA on FreeDarko. That's not to say that I'm out of ideas, or that new reasons to blurt out don't regularly present themselves. But I've got my favorites, my preferences, my blind spots, my theories. Intellectually, I would like to open up this space a little more—and keep a high level of content going, since I don't want to either spread myself thin or too often turn into a pale imitation of myself. In the past, we've had some remarkable guest lectures, from the likes of Dan Hopper, Matthew Yglesias, Brian Phillips, and The Dugout. That's also where we first convinced Tom Ziller and Joey Litman to become recurring members of the team.



What I'm envisoning—and maybe this is hopelessly naive—is an incarnation of FD that is less a blog written by yours truly, more a venue for a new kind of sports writing loosely connected to whatever it is that this site has come to stand for. We're already moving in that direction with the podcast, which as you can see, is only partially me or other familiar names talking into the mic. I do occasionally try and reach out to people for guest posts, with mixed results. Here, though, I'd like to officially open up the floor for submissions. If you have an idea, pitch it. You don't have to have a track record, but it helps. It doesn't even necessarily have to be about the NBA—witness Ufford's ode to Adrian Peterson. But if one of the greatest strengths of FreeDarko has always been its lengthy comments, and our community seems to include an unusually high percentage of good writers . . . well, don't be a stranger.

-Finally, the Rockets. Artest might be the real story of these playoffs, and that makes me happy, but get ready for months upon months of T-Mac bashing. I have given up on defending the man, not because it's impossible, but because I obviously want to end up with a sympathetic view of the man. So instead of embarrassing myself, I'll close with a video of McGrady as I like to remember him. Like Sebadoh said, remember the good times.

Sort of what we have instead of God