The ragged rim of oblivion was now inches from my curling toes. I looked down. My lukewarm sea had swallowed all. A lazy curtain of dust was wafting out to sea, the only trace of all that fell.
Chapter 116: Cat’s Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut
We’ll look back on this year and wonder why we didn’t connect the dots. We were conditioned to believe that road bumps were just part of the journey, not factors that could actually lead to derailment.
I was recalled from this dream by the cry of a darting bird above me. It seemed to be asking me what had happened. “Pootee-phweet?” it asked.
We all looked up at the bird, and then at one another.
Pau Gasol has been hollowed out by unseen specters and by his own defeatism. If this series has taught us anything about the Lakers, it’s just how important an effective Pau Gasol is to the team’s success. The rings in the last two years don’t lie. Gasol was as vital a part of those two campaigns as anyone else. Yeah, he probably hurt his legacy, but he is still one of the finest players in the world at his position. Just wish he could’ve proved it in the most trying moments of his career.
(On a somewhat unrelated note, some of my friends asked me how Gasol would be with Kobe’s indomitable will to win and compete. And all I can picture is a gangly 7-foot vampire demon that can’t stop screaming.)
Pau was hollow. The Lakers have hollowed too. Whatever happened or didn’t happen behind the scenes is of very little consequence at this point. We can only point out what we can see. And we saw unbelievably sluggish, porous, frightened defense. Applaud the out-of-this-world effort from bench warriors J.J. Barea and Jason Terry, two guys that absolutely annihilated the Lakers’ already zombified defense.
There was a sound like that of a gentle closing of a portal as big as the sky, the great door of heaven being closed softly. It was a grand AH-WHOOM.
You know, at one point or another, all of us expected the Lakers to wake up and remember that they were the Lakers. Sometime during Game 4, they did wake up. They realized that they were the Lakers: a tired, tired team chewed up and spit out by the expectation that there was always going to be more glory on the horizon. The sun is melting, not setting. And they’ll have plenty of time to navigate (bump into each other) through the darkness in the offseason.
The sky was filled with worms. The worms were tornadoes.
Defined, intangible is an adjective that describes something incapable of being perceived by the senses, especially in any physical state.
In basketball, it more or less has to do with the mental factors that drive or hinder your performance on the court. Heart, hustle, the willingness to sacrifice, the inner-demand to work hard. These may not have a direct impact on your stat sheet, but they make a difference in a player. Though, you can see someone diving for a loose ball. You can see someone pounding their chest, or letting out a primal scream after a dunk or a momentum-shifting basket. If there is impact in these actions, it is felt. It’s tangible enough.
So when I say Jared Jeffries is intangible, I’m not trying to speak in redundancies saying that he hustles and does the little things. We know that. That’s not why he’s intangible. He’s intangible because everything he does on the court will inevitably be dismissed as a joke. He plays with the stigma of Isiah Thomas’ lofty incompetence. For four years, you couldn’t appreciate Jeffries’ utility. Because if you tried, you were reminded of the 5-6 million dollar price tag that rode along. Jeffries wasn’t the root cause of the Knicks’ inadequacy. On the court, he was often one of the players holding it up from imminent collapse. But he was a product of New York’s reckless cap space abuse, and for four years, he was an easy goat.
And he still is. There is no way around his complete and utter lack of anything resembling an offensive game. He has “hands” like sewer rats have “super powers.” Which is to say, nothing about Jeffries makes any bit of sense. After one game with the Knicks, Jeffries posted a -1.4 PER. I could say he’s made tremendous strides in raising that number to positive marks, and I wouldn’t be wrong. He has. But even so, his PER as a Knick is still the 4th worst in the NBA of those who have played at least 20 games — only Avery Bradley, Luke Babbitt, and (duh) Jarron Collins are worse.
In what has got to be the most compelling post-trade deadline story in the NBA, Jared Jeffries has played 99 minutes and 47 seconds thus far, and has taken only four shots. He’s missed all of them. In four games, he’s scored one point. He has only taken two free throws. In a blowout against the Utah Jazz, Jeffries’ high in plus-minus was +33. He would finish the game with a +27.
27. That number is only one short of Jeffries’ total number of points for the season (28).
But Jeffries’ calling card was always defense, and really, what’s left to be said about it? He’s a great help defender mainly because he’s willing. He’s tall and long, and will always take the charge. His commitment to defense is tantamount to his commitment to sucking on offense. Both are steadfast, and equally impressive. While I thought Jeffries could’ve helped other elite teams in need of a versatile defender to round out the bench, there really isn’t another place where Jeffries would have as much of an impact. Part of the reason why the Knicks fit so well is that they already concede defeat on defense most nights. Jeffries as an interior defender has significant limitations. He has a slight frame, and definitely doesn’t possess the bulk required to guard the monsters inside one-on-one. However, as a rotational defender, he’s fearless. Watch him guard the 1, 2, 3, 4, or 5 on any given possession. Watch him hustle to make sure his teammate’s man isn’t slipping through the cracks. “Glue guy” doesn’t best describe Jeffries’ game. He legitimizes a defense that too often seems to be an inconvenience more than anything.
In the first 58 games without Jeffries, the Knicks gave up an average of 105.8 points a game. In the four games with Jeffries, the Knicks have allowed 98.8. Small sample sizes are usually a huge deterrent in any realistic projections, but considering how Jeffries on-court presence positively affected the Knicks last year, this can probably be seen as more of the same. For a terrible team like last year’s, it’s easy to scoff at Jeffries’ impact. But with a playoff-bound team paying him a fraction of what he was owed last year, his worth has magnified.
Ultimately, nothing will prevent the rest of Jeffries’ career from being dismissed as a joke. He is one of the worst offensive players we’ve seen in recent years, but at least he’s aware of it, right? He’ll continue to do his damage behind the veil while we’re busy laughing at his latest blunder. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.
To be invisible in New York of all places. That’s quite a feat, no?
That was the year Vlade Divac made his way from Yugoslavia to join the Los Angeles Lakers. It was the year my family arrived in America from Vietnam. My brother was 6-years-old. I didn’t exist yet.
It’s a coincidence at best, but the link between my brother and his all-time favorite player was always something worth noting for me. Could it be coincidence that my brother idolized Divac, a foreigner whose fun-loving, selfless attitude allowed him to mesh (as well as he could) with this brave new world? Watching Divac thrive under the bright lights of Hollywood, an embodiment of American lore, was inspiration enough for people like my brother who yearned for an outlet to fit in.
I can’t help but think basketball, especially the 1989-96 Lakers, helped expedite his process of assimilation. I just can’t imagine my brother, or myself for that matter, had he not dove headlong into the NBA.
We had a Michael Jordan poster on the wall. We had a mini-basketball hoop in our room (mostly for me, being the overactive little shit). On Saturdays, we watched Hang Time on NBC because it vaguely dealt with the sport. We watched NBA Inside Stuff as a pregame warmup. The second Roundball Rock started playing, I’d dash out to the living room, excited for a game I knew close to nothing about. More than anything else, I was fascinated by the game’s spell over my brother. Suddenly he didn’t want to play with me. Suddenly all he wanted to do was sit motionlessly and watch. And of course I followed suit. I didn’t miss a single Sunday triple-header. If my brother was watching, so was I — at least until my mind wandered towards my action figures. Yet despite my attention problems, basketball stuck early. I made my first real friend in first grade discussing Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen. By the time I was 7, I could give you the name of any active NBA player so long as you provided a picture of them. It was a feat even my brother wasn’t capable of. That’s kind of what happens when you’re exposed to the internet so young.
We’ve lived in the Los Angeles area all my life, which makes it a little strange to recount my brother’s early years of fandom. For one, he was a Lakers admirer during some of the most dogged years the franchise had dealt with in decades. Aside from the one Finals appearance in 90-91, the Lakers were largely irrelevant, clinging to a few first round defeats, and the unfamiliar process of the lottery. But my brother looks back on these years as vital experiences. Of course, he had Michael Jordan to admire every weekend, but for the day to day grind, it was Chick Hearn, Vlade, Cedric Ceballos, Nick Van Exel, Eddie Jones, and “SEDALE THREATT!”
The iterations after 1996 were largely irrelevant in our household. My brother had not healed from his home team trading away his favorite player. The rest of his beloved Lakers had also vanished. The Shaquille O’Neal and Kobe Bryant era was looked down upon in our household. While this marked the beginning of most Laker fans my age, my allegiances ran wild. We spent the next two years marveling at Jordan’s last stand before my brother found sanctuary with the exciting, run-and-fun Sacramento Kings, marking my brother’s reunion with Vlade.
By the time I was old enough to make coherent judgments of Vlade, he had already settled into the background. My brother raved on and on about how Vlade was an amazing player. None of it could be true; especially since all I saw was a lazy flopper who could barely get up and down the court. But then I’d see Vlade operate in the low block with the utmost patience, catch a cutting Doug Christie with an over-the-shoulder flip pass. I’d see my brother’s immediate reaction. A clenched fist, a shout, and a smile. It was a celebration of Vlade and his career; an NBA career that spanned 16 years. The length of time it takes for a dumb kid (sorry, bro) to progress into adulthood.
Even in his last full season as King, Vlade found a way to be effective. At the age of 35, with the foot speed of an oak tree, he had a career high assist average of 5.3 a game, one more a game than his previous career season in 98-99 (4.3). I learned early from my brother that your favorite players didn’t always have to be the best. They just have to carry traits that you admire most, whether they translate on the court or not. My brother valued craftiness above all else. He valued the smart plays, even more so if a player could be smart without sacrificing flair. Being a fan of Vlade Divac in his prime and during his decline meant being a fan of someone who was willing to immerse himself in all facets of the game. And by the end of his career, it meant appreciating the skills that time couldn’t take away. In his final years, we watched Vlade transcend his limitations. Sure, he couldn’t run. But that didn’t stop him from becoming Sacramento’s primary facilitator, taking full advantage of a skill that he’s possessed and honed since he was a teenager in Yugoslavia.
Commitments have eaten away at my brother’s NBA time. As the years pass by, familiar faces have began to fade, replaced by young talents he’s yet to acquaint himself with. It’s not sad. It’s just life. As for myself, I have my own fandom issues to sort out, and I’ve started the process by going back to the beginning. This journey is all about perspective, and I have my brother to thank for instilling this love when I was young. I have fond memories of the Knicks-Heat feuds of the late ’90s, of a young Kevin Garnett, and of Vince Carter back when he could do no wrong. Those memories are my foundation. But there will always be a spot reserved for Vlade Divac. Because I suppose in my family, it begins and ends with him.
Vlade played his first NBA game against the Dallas Mavericks. In 15 minutes, he logged 2 points, 8 rebounds, and 3 blocks. It was played at Reunion Arena in Dallas on November 3, 1989. Exactly two years (and a day) later, I was born.
Thank you, Vlade, for being the player my brother looked up to most. You’ll never know the impact you’ve made, but I suppose I owe you. You’ve helped shape the person I’ve looked up to my whole life.
If it isn’t already painfully obvious that I use this space to shamelessly promote my favorite players, allow me to verify that for you. Here are some facts about Jason Terry’s after a stroll down his Basketball-Reference page.
Terry’s nickname, “JET” should actually be spelled in capital letters. Mainly because it has less to do with how fast he is or how high he can jump, and more to do with the fact that it’s an initialism of his first, middle, and last name: JasonEugeneTerry. I didn’t know this…which is kind of embarrassing considering how much I admire him.
In 11 1/2 seasons in the NBA, Terry has only missed 25 games. Terry’s 1999 NBA Draft classmate and former NBA ironman, Andre Miller, has only missed six.
After Saturday’s win over the Atlanta Hawks, Terry surpassed Nate Archibald in minutes played, placing him 99th overall in the NBA with 31183 minutes. After the Mavericks’ next game, barring catastrophe, he will surpass Ron Harper and Dave DeBusschere.
Terry is 6th in both career three-pointers made and attempted among active players. Switching it over to all-time, he doesn’t drop off much. Terry is 8th all-time in three-point field goals made, and 11th in attempts.
Terry wears the number 31, and has worn it since high school. It was retired at Franklin High School in Seattle, his alma mater.
Since 31 has been a part of Terry’s life for so long, let’s have some fun with it:
Cardboard Gerald of Bobcats Baseline was kind enough to draw me a picture of Semih Erden. Next time I head to a Kinko’s, this is getting printed on superfine matte, framed, and posted on my wall. I told him that I was going to pass this along to my future young. I wasn’t joking.
In other good news, if you haven’t seen already, I’m now contributing to Hardwood Paroxysm. My first piece is on John Wall, his injuries, and his growth. I’ve gotten positive feedback on it, so I’m hoping I’m not bringing down the blog’s good name.
School started yesterday, and it’s looking like a demanding semester. I can’t promise regular updates (not that it happens anyway) but I should still have enough time to crank out a piece every week or so. So if you guys need your fix, peruse through the archives. And if you haven’t read already, read my pieces on Anthony Randolph and Blake Griffin.
Anthony Randolph’s career has been a series of miscalculated endeavors. Saying I was wrong for believing Randolph to be the key to the New York Knicks’ rise would be an understatement. He’s been an absolute disappointment, but that hasn’t changed who he is. He still possesses the same gangly frame with the most forlorn face you’ve ever seen. He still possesses all the potential in the world. And he still has absolutely no clue what to do with it.
There are only two ways of looking at Randolph. Either you see what he can become —Lamar Odom with Marcus Camby’s adroit defense— or you don’t see him, period. That’s understandable; after all, for all the legends he’s created in summer league and preseason play, he is still a benchwarmer for a team all too willing to give him up for the right price. But what does that do to a player? He’s heard all about his potential, but so far, he’s had very little to show. Two years of cuckoo-ball in Oakland, and a non-season in New York. Three years in the league, and he’s yet to exist in the present. Only in the future, or nowhere at all.
But hey, Randolph doesn’t have it so bad. In Portland, Jermaine O’Neal sat motionless in the same seat for four years. Maybe all the time spent not doing what you signed up to do changes you for the better. Maybe it forces you to make sense of yourself before you’re left behind for good.
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Gastroenteritis means inflammation of the stomach and small and large intestines. Viral gastroenteritis is an infection caused by a variety of viruses that results in vomiting or diarrhea. It is often called the “stomach flu,” although it is not caused by the influenza viruses.
The affected person may also have headache, fever, and abdominal cramps (“stomach ache”). In general, the symptoms begin 1 to 2 days following infection with a virus that causes gastroenteritis and may last for 1 to 10 days, depending on which virus causes the illness.
You don’t know your limitations until you confront them face to face.
I didn’t have a chink in my iron gullet. I spent my days happily testing the bounds of my bottomless pit of a stomach. I was a monster. I was a beast. I was freakshow commissioned by my parents to entertain guests.
Watch our scrawny son eat! He eats so much, but he doesn’t grow!
And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love every second of it.
But illness has a way of pitting your greatest allies against you. I haven’t been able to piece together a cohesive eating pattern in a week. I haven’t been able to eat a regular meal in five days. As soon as food enters my system, an enormous bubble-wrapped void enters my stomach, forbidding anything else from encroaching on its newfound home. The pain was in knowing. Knowing I was starving, but unable to do anything about it. Granted, my bout with the stomach flu has been mild. Other than one day locked in the bathroom, the past few days have been spent idly battling (if you can call it that) an incorruptible bloating. My misfortunes may pale in comparison to much stronger strains of virus, but it hurts all the same, especially when it begins to wear away at your identity.
When food plays such a large role in shaping your social behavior and personal wellbeing, you start to wonder if it’s just a sickness, or if life as you know it is escaping your grasp. For a week —a duration longer than I’ve ever had to deal with— I’ve been unable to eat, and it’s the scariest thing I’ve ever dealt with. Maybe this is adulthood. My friends joke that this is time catching up with me, that this is the end of my tireless metabolism. And I start to believe them. Because at what point do I start blaming myself for this, and not my circumstance?
Because being a victim of circumstance only works for so long as an excuse, right?
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Randolph has no identity, and unless he has a chance to determine himself what he is as a basketball player, he’ll remain stuck. For a player of Randolph’s talent level, that’s the worst case scenario.
Alas, therein lies the problem with Randolph. He’s clearly not ready for the big minutes, but there is absolutely no way he progresses without them. He makes egregious errors when he is forced to quantify and qualify his time, something that has been made all too clear in his 110 minutes with the Knicks and his beyond terrible 5.7 PER. If you give Randolph enough time to naturally read the flow of the game, he is capable of astounding things. But he can easily drag the team through Styx in the process. The Knicks are wise to want to find a suitor. The team, even if it’s only a middling playoff team in the East, has too much positive momentum to give Randolph any chance at destroying it. Randolph needs a team with the patience to watch him grow through trial and error, and a team with nothing to lose playing him for extended minutes.
And now more than ever, enter Portland. It makes me sick to say, but yet another crucial player has fallen to knee injury. Marcus Camby is confirmed to have surgery for a torn meniscus in the left knee. With Brandon Roy, Greg Oden, and now Camby out of the picture, trading for someone of Randolph’s ability should be a no-brainer. Market value has determined that a first round pick will win Randolph’s services, and Portland has definitely shown interest.
Looking at the Blazers’ diminished roster, one could easily hold out hope that Randolph could find sanctuary in Oregon. But that’s also what we said about Oakland and New York. Randolph hasn’t been able to fight into a stable frontcourt spot at any juncture in his career, and at this point, he needs confirmation that he’s going to play, above all. Have the Blazers nothing left to lose? It all depends on how much they want to cling to their futile 8th seed. But fostering young talent as a contingency plan might not be too far-fetched of an option with the way their curtain is closing.
Unfortunately, none of us know what Randolph would bring to Portland. It was easy to victimize him during his first two seasons due to the insanity that was the Warriors’ rotation. New York, on the other hand, has been an extreme disappointment, especially considering what a marvel an Amar’e Stoudemire/Randolph frontcourt could’ve been. He just hasn’t done much to earn his spot, especially with him jacking up long range two-pointers every chance he gets.
The only thing we seem to know about Randolph is what he could be. It’s the only thing folks write or talk about. It’s so inundated in our systems that enormous potential very well may be Randolph’s identity at this point. It’s a foundation made of popsicle sticks. It’s what makes his play so infuriating and inspiring, sometimes at once (though examples are few and far between this season). He still has time to salvage whatever it is he envisioned for himself, but we can only cling to potential for so long. Let’s just hope the toiling on the bench hasn’t already done him in.
We speak his name with a lover’s tongue. His daily routine is an inimitable thrill ride, and every moment he creates and destroys has a power that resonates around the planet. As his hand collides with the rim, it’s only a matter of seconds before a world collectively reaches out for the familiar strokes on the keyboard, banging on letters and symbols violently,as though to personally replicate the impossible feat just witnessed. The strokes add up to a name that has taken over basketball discussion entirely, and for good reason:
BLAKE. GRIFFIN.
The process never changes. Games begin and end the same as they ever have, but Griffin’s clashing display of genteel skill and visceral anomalousness creates a space where your memory goes only as far Griffin’s last explosion. It’s dangerous to say that Griffin’s play overshadows the game itself, but when you watch a historically awful franchise like the Los Angeles Clippers, it’s easy to forget about the very construct of organized basketball when Griffin so routinely destroys the limits of possibility.
And though the Clippers’ star player has found unanimous praise outside the scope of the team, Griffin is still the best thing that could’ve happened to the franchise. The team has risen to relevancy without having a great record, and without overwhelming expectations. Griffin is the beautiful diversion. Under his radiant glow is a Clippers team tinkering and tinkering, growing into one of the most exciting young teams in the league.
As far as physical anomalies go, Griffin’s only real contemporary is LeBron James. They aren’t the same player; that’s a given. And even though Griffin has only played about two months of NBA basketball, it’s clear that time has given Griffin’s career outlook something James was never offered: a slice of continuity.
From the very onset of his NBA career, James was given complete control over the franchise. He was, after all, the hometown kid, the most hyped NBA prospect ever, and above all, one of the most prodigious talents the league has ever seen. But he was also a kid who was given everything and nothing. His early years were marked by a consistent rotating door of players that would bring the Cleveland Cavaliers “over the top.” But this was a kid who hadn’t experienced the fraternal embrace of college and who was still in many ways alone. To say that James’ career in Cleveland was unsuccessful would be a farce. But he grew into manhood in a system that didn’t foster growth through progression. Players were constantly being shipped as the organization restructured the team year after year, looking for the perfect combination. LeBron never had a consistent “youth revolution” to grow into. He was the centrifuge for a litany of two-year experiments. That’s not to say his teams didn’t have excellent chemistry. They did. But how much can we credit the organization when most of it was tied to James’ endless charm?
Griffin’s year detached from the hardwood was an opportunity to learn from a different perspective. He became a fixture on the team before establishing any presence on the court. Trust, respect, patience. Griffin’s ear-to-ear smiles with DeAndre Jordan in candid photos and videos. The synchronism in his actions with Baron Davis’. This is a product of a year-long team-building exercise. The sudden promise and positivity mounting in Clipper Nation. This is a product of Blake Griffin; a product of time.
Time never afforded LeBron that same opportunity in Cleveland. He was Excalibur in a town fruitlessly searching for the right wielder(s). Griffin is the unicorn, a creature of inexplicable wonder capable of neutralizing a poisoned franchise. This forms the basis of their parallel, and ultimately, why Griffin has become the perfect face to James’ heel (since wrestling analogies have worked so well with LeBron). Kevin Durant’s golden boy status remains strong, as it should be. But dynamite can only be combated with more dynamite. That’s how NBA storylines are made and remade. Now that LeBron has “embraced” the villain role in Miami, the league needs someone who can match James’ unearthly prowess and be that inexplicable voice of “good”. As John Krolik notes in his Heat Index piece, personality-wise, the two are worlds apart, yet their actions on the court speak to a reservoir of talent that epitomizes the importance of both players to the NBA, past, present, and future.
Our appreciation for Blake Griffin —even though we’re given a daily dose of him from the media— is still in an infantile stage. We write about his incredible skillset and his achievements so early in his career, we wax poetics about his dedication, and we gush at his five-plus highlights every single game. He’s pristine. He’s at a place where LeBron can only faintly remember now. But where we stand today, they are both as vital as the other. We need the white unicorn just as much as we need the scapegoat.
Almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the imitation of those who we cannot resemble. - Samuel Johnson
I love watching the Minnesota Timberwolves play. I like to laugh, and I like to live, so their games provide a curious fulfillment.
Something about the way in which they lose games is absolutely mystifying. The end result is more or less a certainty. But for the first 43 minutes of most games, you forget about all the David Kahn jokes you’ve made, and you forget that the team has one of the worst records in the league. Because for some reason, no matter who the opponent, the team plays 89.5% of the game with an indescribable flourish.
It’s the remaining 10.5% that leaves the Wolves high and dry. And it’s sobering to see, in motion, the futility of man over and over and over again. How else would you describe the 4th quarter meltdowns that have occurred almost like clockwork? And it’s not like players are seizing on the floor once the 4th quarter buzzer sounds. They have players trying their hardest out there, but just don’t seem equipped for the task. Out of 38 games thus far, the Wolves have outscored their opponent in the 4th quarter 18 times, trailed their opponent 19 times, and tied once. Their 4th quarter point differentials coupled with the Wolves’ well-documented struggles in the final minutes show no real trend, only disappointing realities.
The team is full of capable three-point shooters, short and tall. But their lack of offensive creativity leads to underwhelming execution in pressure situations, which either foils an otherwise stellar performance, or stifles a last-second run.
This is never quite as evident as it is in the season’s series against the San Antonio Spurs (the last game of their four-game season series is today). The Wolves have both blown leads and attempted comebacks in the series, though they’ve never lost by more than six points. What’s most frustrating about the eventuality of a Wolves’ loss is that their first quarters are generally stellar. In three games against the Spurs this year, the Wolves’ haven’t trailed after the first quarter once, and have kept the games competitive up until the final minutes. Kevin Love surely isn’t the problem. In the three games, he’s averaged 25 points and 16.6 rebounds. He’s had the help of a random assortment of contributors on each game, but the something that remains consistent is the team’s lack of a true wing presence.
To be fair, Beasley was only able to play 11 minutes in their last game due to an ankle injury, but the Wolves’ wing rotation (which runs four deep) with or without Beasley is full of athletes with nonexistent ball-handling skills, which limits them to basic cuts and three-point attempts. Only Beasley manages to escape this generalization, but he’s still yet to prove himself as a consistent shot-creator. One only needs to look at the free throw situation in the three games against the Spurs to see how the lack of dynamic wing scorers has affected the Wolves’ success. In three games, Love shot 20-24 from the free throw line. In those same three games, Minnesota’s wings as a group shot 12-16. The Wolves haven’t been able to get easy opportunities from their swingmen, and it’s killing them. The Spurs have averaged about 12 more free throws in their meetings with Minnesota. When the margin of victory has been an average of 3.25 points, allowing for that large of a free throw differential is absolutely ball-busting.
The Wolves have one last shot at earning a victory against the Spurs today. The past three losses have essentially summed up Minnesota’s season thus far: endlessly disappointing, but a whole lot of fun. Their highs can never be too high, and yet their lows are never that low. While relevance in the traditional sense of championships and playoff berths may be out of the question, their flawed, yet lovable team has become a regular League Pass alert, if only to watch a boneheaded last-second play unfold.
Besides, isn’t that what comedy is all about? We have a need to poke at our festering wounds. The absurdity of our pain tells us we’re alive to fail another day. And until Minnesota makes sense of their lineup, or finds dynamism in their stable of one-trick-ponies, their bizarre comedy act will continue to flesh out. Until they’re ready to be taken seriously.
Head over and read my latest for Outside The NBA on Tracy McGrady and his recent resurgence in Detroit. I called his demise during the summer, but he has indeed made good on his word. He’s back. Not better than ever, not even close. But a Tracy McGrady playing a vital role in a team’s success will always be welcomed in my book.
I started this blog last May because I had too many NBA thoughts and not enough friends that gave a shit. I knew of the big hitters, FreeDarko, TrueHoop and Ball Don’t Lie, but little did I know that the NBA blogosphere was full of inspiring talents, each with their own perspective and attitude to this wonderful game.
There is an unparalleled level of respect and camaraderie in the NBA blogosphere that I’ve just tapped into. Twitter is crazier than I could’ve ever imagined, but only a platform like that could adequately connect the mob of hoop obsessed boys and girls that we are.
I don’t claim to be anything more than a bag full of words. I don’t know the game as well as the people who do this for a living. But journalists, bloggers, writers, whatever you want to call them; they make me want to learn as much as I can. I’m growing as a writer and as a fan, and I can only hope that one day my voice is as strong as the folks who write for ESPN, the TrueHoop Network, SB Nation, SLAM Magazine, Yahoo!, and any other influential outlet.
And so begins 2011. I don’t know where this blog will take me. I’ve spent the past 19 years of my life watching basketball a certain way. It was only until a few months ago that I began to see basketball in a new way, embracing numbers as much as I did the mental aspect of the game. There is an infinite amount of growth left in me as a writer, observer, and person. I hope to progress in all three areas with the help of this blog, and with the help of this community that I’ve become a part of.
I appreciate everyone who’s ever read my writing, retweeted my pieces, or given me compliments/suggestions/advice.
Thanks for your readership over the months. Here’s to a wonderful new year.
