A slight departure from our regularly scheduled programming.
After stumbling upon the blog of Tim Ferriss one day a few weeks ago, I quickly found a Friday morning evaporate in front of my eyes. His stuff was downright interesting. I polished off article after article like a frat boy does crappy light beer. Chock-full of challenges, his site provides insight and tips for enhancing, improving, and liberating your life.
Some articles include why gluten is bad for you and how to eliminate it from your diet (to be tried), how to go on a media fast (will definitely be tried), and how to gain 30lbs of muscle in 30 days (would love to be tried, but color me skeptical).
However, one of the articles that struck me concerned itself with complaints. In the post, Ferriss provides a link to a Website called A Complaint Free World. Between his article and this site, I learned quite a bit, including one very startling statistic: around 40% of all conversations revolve around complaining.
Let me restate that: nearly half of all spoken interactions are predicated upon whining, nagging, and, for lack of a better word, bitching.
I didn't believe it until I started monitoring it in my day to day interactions. Shit, son, it be true. From the mundane ("It's so God-dammed hot!") to the more intense ("My car got broken into! Fuck this."), everyone complained around me.
And I came to a sad realization--I was very much a member of this un-illustrious club.
No matter the topic, I found ways to complain about it. Traffic? Yup. The Weather? Yup yup. The annoying person in front of me at the grocery store? Triple yup.
Now, I understand complaining is inherent to the human condition; we all have a need to distinguish ourselves, and trying to show that you were handed a raw deal confers its benefits. Not only does it garner pity--it creates room for excuse.
For me, I'd had enough of this so I decided to bite: I'd undertake the 3 week no-complaint challenge. I subscribed to Ferriss' version of the challenge, not the Website's. The Website's seemed to stringent (gossiping and pointing out the complaining of others qualified as a violation under its rule-set), whereas Tim's was more practical.
His went so -- you could complain if and 0nly if you provided a solution to the complaint. If you complained and didn't go about finding a way to remedy the problem, you'd be penalized, and have to start all over. Both sites recommended wearing something on your wrist to serve as a reminder. When you did slip you'd swap the bracelet. The goal's to go 21 days without complaining. Easy to understand, difficult to do.
Now, this isn't to be cute or funny. It's supposed to counter-act negative thinking that plagues us all. Complaining gets you nowhere. That's no way to go about things.
I've been doing it for three weeks now. And the longest I've gone without complaining? Two whole days. I refuse to cheat, so if I suspect I complained, if I have even a shred of doubt, I count it as a complaint and move the band to my other wrist. It has been a very incremental and slow process.
And while success has assuredly been mixed, methinks it's working. My thinking is shifting. The desired effect (to promote positive and pro-active thinking) is happening. The stuff that I can't control I let slide. Nothing I can do about that stuff--why complain? And the thingsI can do something about I take steps to remedy.
It's simple and beautiful. Wanna join me? Let me know.
(Editor's Note: Turns out this has everything to do with basketball. When this was written last week, I failed to realized that the NBA had drafted new rules regulating complaining during games. Players who whine and complain excessively will be handed technicals like they are beads at Mardi Gras. Dwight Howard should probably give this no complaint thing a try.)
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Ode to Jon Brockman
I first knew I liked Jon Brockman when we shook hands. Eye contact. Solid grip. A "how's it going?" It was a man's handshake. If a handshake said something about a person, then Jon's said plenty. Tough guy. Hard-worker. Genuine dude. It was the kind of handshake I wished I had. When we met (at Kings sanctioned meet-and-greet), he was sitting behind a propped up table at a Raley's in Fair Oaks, a stack of stationary stamped with the Kings logo to his left, a black sharpie for signing them to his right. He was flanked by Kings representatives who ushered us through the line one-by-one. While he may have been genuine when we met, the set-up was assuredly not.
Brockman caught my (and the rest of Sacramento's) eye early last season with his work on the court. Lacking finesse and jump-out-of-gym athleticism, Jon Brockman made up for it with his work-horse style of play. Lunging for errant balls, corralling rebounds, bodying up on guys five inches taller and forty five pounds heavier than him, Brockman did all he could with the few minutes a game that coach Paul Westphal gave him. He stretched his time on the court to the absolute limit, and when you saw Spencer Hawes or Jason Thompson run to the scorer's table to check in for him, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness.
After the miraculous comeback over the Bulls, where Brockman notched an astounding (and team best) +26 in only 17 minutes of play, his cult status among Kings fans was forever solidified. During that game he became my favorite player on the Kings. This may be the largest cliche I'll ever type, but I can't think of a better way to put it--Jon Brockman's raw energy during that second half galvanized the Kings. He was the catalyst, bar none, that put into motion one of the largest comebacks in NBA history. In a Kings season marred with disappointment and heartbreak, this was the arguably the brightest moment. And it was all possible because of Jon Brockman.
While the media fawned over Tyreke Evans and his run for the vaunted 20-5-5 statline as the season drew to a close (and rightly so, I suppose), I grew to respect Brockman more and more. He kept his head down and plugged along, doing all he possibly could, never causing trouble or making waves.
Nicknames were thrown his way. Brocknasty. Brocktopus. The Brockness Monster. My IM team loved that last one so much we used it to name our team. The autograph I got from him at the meet-and-greet found its way onto my wall. The photo of us became my profile picture on Facebook.
It's safe to say I idolized him. And that handshake had a lot to do with that. The handshake said it all; he was interested in getting to know you. He didn't take anything for granted. Every game for him was an opportunity--just a normal guy trying to prove he had the moxie to hang in the Association. That's all. Sitting at a supermarket signing autographs for fans was starkly foreign to him and likely something he never expected to do. You could tell he was surprised, and perhaps excited, that people had lined up to see him.
And that type of humility, that type of enthusiasm is exactly what the NBA needs more of. With super stars wearing shirts proclaiming their greatness or giving uninspired quips to reporters in post-game interviews, Brockman eschewed that culture. Opting instead to sport a camouflage hat as part of his off-court attire, he tried to blend in rather than obnoxiously stand out. Brockman wasn't (and isn't) about the fanfare, even if he is appreciative of it.
In the off-season, Brockman was traded to the Milwaukee Bucks. I understand that's the nature of the league, that players are treated as commodities to be traded, bought, and sold. Being a fan favorite doesn't get you too far if management deems you an unnecessary piece of their puzzle. That's too bad, because it means he won't be donning a Kings uniform anymore. But I'm happy for him regardless. It means he'll still grace the league with his work ethic. And no matter what jersey he sports (even if it is purple and gold), I'll root for him. Because guys like Jon Brockman make the game worth watching. The league needs more people like him--duck hunter, country music enthusiast, working man.
Look past the entitled superstars. Look past the labor disputes. Jon Brockman is a reason to be excited about this league.
Brockman caught my (and the rest of Sacramento's) eye early last season with his work on the court. Lacking finesse and jump-out-of-gym athleticism, Jon Brockman made up for it with his work-horse style of play. Lunging for errant balls, corralling rebounds, bodying up on guys five inches taller and forty five pounds heavier than him, Brockman did all he could with the few minutes a game that coach Paul Westphal gave him. He stretched his time on the court to the absolute limit, and when you saw Spencer Hawes or Jason Thompson run to the scorer's table to check in for him, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness.
After the miraculous comeback over the Bulls, where Brockman notched an astounding (and team best) +26 in only 17 minutes of play, his cult status among Kings fans was forever solidified. During that game he became my favorite player on the Kings. This may be the largest cliche I'll ever type, but I can't think of a better way to put it--Jon Brockman's raw energy during that second half galvanized the Kings. He was the catalyst, bar none, that put into motion one of the largest comebacks in NBA history. In a Kings season marred with disappointment and heartbreak, this was the arguably the brightest moment. And it was all possible because of Jon Brockman.
While the media fawned over Tyreke Evans and his run for the vaunted 20-5-5 statline as the season drew to a close (and rightly so, I suppose), I grew to respect Brockman more and more. He kept his head down and plugged along, doing all he possibly could, never causing trouble or making waves.
Nicknames were thrown his way. Brocknasty. Brocktopus. The Brockness Monster. My IM team loved that last one so much we used it to name our team. The autograph I got from him at the meet-and-greet found its way onto my wall. The photo of us became my profile picture on Facebook.It's safe to say I idolized him. And that handshake had a lot to do with that. The handshake said it all; he was interested in getting to know you. He didn't take anything for granted. Every game for him was an opportunity--just a normal guy trying to prove he had the moxie to hang in the Association. That's all. Sitting at a supermarket signing autographs for fans was starkly foreign to him and likely something he never expected to do. You could tell he was surprised, and perhaps excited, that people had lined up to see him.
And that type of humility, that type of enthusiasm is exactly what the NBA needs more of. With super stars wearing shirts proclaiming their greatness or giving uninspired quips to reporters in post-game interviews, Brockman eschewed that culture. Opting instead to sport a camouflage hat as part of his off-court attire, he tried to blend in rather than obnoxiously stand out. Brockman wasn't (and isn't) about the fanfare, even if he is appreciative of it.
In the off-season, Brockman was traded to the Milwaukee Bucks. I understand that's the nature of the league, that players are treated as commodities to be traded, bought, and sold. Being a fan favorite doesn't get you too far if management deems you an unnecessary piece of their puzzle. That's too bad, because it means he won't be donning a Kings uniform anymore. But I'm happy for him regardless. It means he'll still grace the league with his work ethic. And no matter what jersey he sports (even if it is purple and gold), I'll root for him. Because guys like Jon Brockman make the game worth watching. The league needs more people like him--duck hunter, country music enthusiast, working man.
Look past the entitled superstars. Look past the labor disputes. Jon Brockman is a reason to be excited about this league.
Friday, September 24, 2010
"Hey, you guys need one more?" Part 3
ESPN Page 2's Patrick Hruby wrote a pair of great articles detailing some of the different types of ballers that lace it up and take it to the blacktop for pick-up games. You can find both of them here and here. While both articles were super excellent, I felt they were a tad incomplete. So, like any good writer, I blatantly ripped off the idea and wrote my own piece about it. I'll detail all the guys I've met in my time playing and identify their closest NBA equivalent. Hopefully, after reading this, the next time someone asks you, "hey, you guys need one more?" you'll know exactly what you are getting into if you let him play.
Here's Part 1 and Part 2.
13. The Girlfriend
Playing with the girlfriend represents a special case. You'll never run into her by herself. She'll never show up to the court in gear ready to ball. Instead, a certain set of circumstances must be in place for The Girlfriend to play. Anyone who's played even a small amount of pick-up just nodded their head knowingly. You know exactly what I'm talking about, the exact circumstances I'm referring to.
I'll paint the picture. You invite your guy friend to come play ball and he obliges. You figure that when he shows up, he'll just bring himself to play. But instead, he has a surprise for everyone. He arrives at the court with the lady-friend in tow. She ends up sitting on the sideline to watch her beau play, cheer at the wrong times, and text her friends. No big deal. Her sitting quietly on the sideline shouldn't impact the game.
But then something unexpected happens. One of the guys you are playing with has to take off. Maybe he has work, maybe he has class, or maybe he rolled his ankle. For whatever reason, he's gone. Now you have uneven numbers. What do you do? No one wants to sit out. No one else is around to play. You are forced to do the unthinkable. You are forced to do the unimaginable. You are forced to ask your buddy if his girlfriend wants to play.
This is the equivalent of placing the kiss of death on your afternoon of basketball. Not only is The Girlfriend totally unfamiliar with the game and totally unwilling to actually try to learn (she's too busy trying to stay pretty), the boyfriend will instantly stop caring as well. The happy couple will obviously guard each other and whenever The Girlfriend touches the ball, the boyfriend will play an "aggressive" brand of defense on her. Everyone else will stand around awkwardly and watch this unsettling act of PDA.
Closest NBA equivalent: Sasha Vujacic
14. The Kid
The Kid comes in two flavors. The first is the type that lingers awkwardly around the court, mimicking moves of the older kids and meekly asking to play. I have no problem with this version of The Kid because we've all been there; playing with older kids is not an easy undertaking. It's a tough place we've all been. You need to hand it to The Kid for having the stones to ask to play.
The second type is that same kid, 6 months later. He's kept at it, working on his jumper, his handles, his no-look pass. Standing not an inch over 4'8" and not an ounce over 85 pounds, The Kid is tiny. When he puts up that 25 foot heave, every bit of his strength goes into it. Of course, he won't make a living off his jumper; rather, his greatest asset will be his quickness. And damn is that quickness filthy. The Kid has the nastiest crossover you've ever seen. The defense will be on skates the entire time. Wanna feel like Jaque Vaughn out there? Then be a man and volunteer to guard The Kid.
Closest NBA equivalent: Early Boykins
Giving short guys hope everywhere.
.
15. Only Offense
For lack of a better term, Only Offense is a dick. He thinks he's the man. No, scratch that, he knows he's the man. In his mind, Only Offense has the complete offensive game. He possesses the perfect toolbox, the perfect treasure chest of moves to put any defender on a poster. Never meeting a look at the basket he didn't immediately fall in love with, Only Offense will put up a shot as soon as he touches the ball. Two defenders? More like too easy. Three defenders? More like three-point play. Teammates? He's never heard of the word.
In fact, Only Offense believes he has such a perfect offensive game that this will excuse him from exerting any effort on the defensive end. Expect walking up and down the court. Expect cherry-picking. Expect the calling of phantom fouls every time he misses. After all, Only Offense would never miss a bucket unless he got hacked, right? If you never want to see the ball again, pass it to this guy.
Closest NBA equivalent: Ben Gordon
16. The Passer
Wanna feel inadequate? Wanna feel like the weak link on a team? Play with The Passer. He has superior court vision, commendable quickness, and a high enough basketball IQ to know exactly when to dump the rock off on a penetrate and dish. Can you set a pick for The Passser, seal his defender, and roll to the hoop? Then expect a perfect one-handed bounce pass a second later.
And therein lies the problem. The Passer is almost too good at setting up his teammates. No one can keep up with this guy's ability to distribute. Without fail, he'll use his quickness to draw the defenders to him. Then when the moment is perfect, he'll hit you with a pass so beautiful Magic Johnson would weep. You'll get the ball a foot from the hoop with the closest defender seven feet away. All you have to do is make an uncontested lay-up. Easy, right? Nope. What do you do instead? Put up a big fat brick. It's goddamn embarrassing and there's nothing you can say or do to explain away your suckage. With confidence forever rocked and a part of you secretly despising The Passer for making you look a fool, fully recovering from this embarrassment will take months.
Closest NBA equivalent: Chris Paul
Here's Part 1 and Part 2.
13. The Girlfriend
Playing with the girlfriend represents a special case. You'll never run into her by herself. She'll never show up to the court in gear ready to ball. Instead, a certain set of circumstances must be in place for The Girlfriend to play. Anyone who's played even a small amount of pick-up just nodded their head knowingly. You know exactly what I'm talking about, the exact circumstances I'm referring to.
I'll paint the picture. You invite your guy friend to come play ball and he obliges. You figure that when he shows up, he'll just bring himself to play. But instead, he has a surprise for everyone. He arrives at the court with the lady-friend in tow. She ends up sitting on the sideline to watch her beau play, cheer at the wrong times, and text her friends. No big deal. Her sitting quietly on the sideline shouldn't impact the game.
But then something unexpected happens. One of the guys you are playing with has to take off. Maybe he has work, maybe he has class, or maybe he rolled his ankle. For whatever reason, he's gone. Now you have uneven numbers. What do you do? No one wants to sit out. No one else is around to play. You are forced to do the unthinkable. You are forced to do the unimaginable. You are forced to ask your buddy if his girlfriend wants to play.
This is the equivalent of placing the kiss of death on your afternoon of basketball. Not only is The Girlfriend totally unfamiliar with the game and totally unwilling to actually try to learn (she's too busy trying to stay pretty), the boyfriend will instantly stop caring as well. The happy couple will obviously guard each other and whenever The Girlfriend touches the ball, the boyfriend will play an "aggressive" brand of defense on her. Everyone else will stand around awkwardly and watch this unsettling act of PDA.
Closest NBA equivalent: Sasha Vujacic
Definitely the little spoon.
14. The Kid
The Kid comes in two flavors. The first is the type that lingers awkwardly around the court, mimicking moves of the older kids and meekly asking to play. I have no problem with this version of The Kid because we've all been there; playing with older kids is not an easy undertaking. It's a tough place we've all been. You need to hand it to The Kid for having the stones to ask to play.
The second type is that same kid, 6 months later. He's kept at it, working on his jumper, his handles, his no-look pass. Standing not an inch over 4'8" and not an ounce over 85 pounds, The Kid is tiny. When he puts up that 25 foot heave, every bit of his strength goes into it. Of course, he won't make a living off his jumper; rather, his greatest asset will be his quickness. And damn is that quickness filthy. The Kid has the nastiest crossover you've ever seen. The defense will be on skates the entire time. Wanna feel like Jaque Vaughn out there? Then be a man and volunteer to guard The Kid.
Closest NBA equivalent: Early Boykins
Giving short guys hope everywhere..
15. Only Offense
For lack of a better term, Only Offense is a dick. He thinks he's the man. No, scratch that, he knows he's the man. In his mind, Only Offense has the complete offensive game. He possesses the perfect toolbox, the perfect treasure chest of moves to put any defender on a poster. Never meeting a look at the basket he didn't immediately fall in love with, Only Offense will put up a shot as soon as he touches the ball. Two defenders? More like too easy. Three defenders? More like three-point play. Teammates? He's never heard of the word.
In fact, Only Offense believes he has such a perfect offensive game that this will excuse him from exerting any effort on the defensive end. Expect walking up and down the court. Expect cherry-picking. Expect the calling of phantom fouls every time he misses. After all, Only Offense would never miss a bucket unless he got hacked, right? If you never want to see the ball again, pass it to this guy.
Closest NBA equivalent: Ben Gordon
"Hey Tayshaun, catch!"
"Really?!?"
"Nah."
"Really?!?"
"Nah."
16. The Passer
Wanna feel inadequate? Wanna feel like the weak link on a team? Play with The Passer. He has superior court vision, commendable quickness, and a high enough basketball IQ to know exactly when to dump the rock off on a penetrate and dish. Can you set a pick for The Passser, seal his defender, and roll to the hoop? Then expect a perfect one-handed bounce pass a second later.
And therein lies the problem. The Passer is almost too good at setting up his teammates. No one can keep up with this guy's ability to distribute. Without fail, he'll use his quickness to draw the defenders to him. Then when the moment is perfect, he'll hit you with a pass so beautiful Magic Johnson would weep. You'll get the ball a foot from the hoop with the closest defender seven feet away. All you have to do is make an uncontested lay-up. Easy, right? Nope. What do you do instead? Put up a big fat brick. It's goddamn embarrassing and there's nothing you can say or do to explain away your suckage. With confidence forever rocked and a part of you secretly despising The Passer for making you look a fool, fully recovering from this embarrassment will take months.
Closest NBA equivalent: Chris Paul
"Yo Chris, I won't airball my next lay-up. Promise."
"There's no place like unrestricted free agency... there's no place like unrestricted free agency..."
"There's no place like unrestricted free agency... there's no place like unrestricted free agency..."
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Return (for real this time)
I'm back! And I intend for it to stay that way. I'll spare you the pain and keep the contrived "I've gotten busy with life so I didn't have time to write blah blah blah" bullshit to a minimum. An excuse is like an asshole; everyone has one and they all stink. So this will be short. I'll drop the three main reasons I took a break, how I intend to go forward from here, and then let you carry on with your day.
If you don't know why I'd put a picture of Jordan sporting number 45 in a post about making a comeback, do yourself a favor and look it up. Get educated, son.
Reason Number 1: I moved. Yup, I relocated my entire life three hundred miles south. Moving from rural-ish Davis to Los Angeles has involved a lifestyle and culture adjustment, and it tended to create a large black hole that engulfed all time around it.
Reason Number 2: It's the NBA offseason. Shit be slow this time of year. Yes, the World Championships just wrapped up (I love you, Kevin "Captain America" Durant). Yes, there are talks about 'Melo leaving Denver for greener (and if the rumor mongers will have us believe, more urban) pastures. Yes, preseason is right around the corner, meaning the regular season looms closer than ever. But here's the thing: it's all talk. And talk is cheap. I might be in the minority here, but I don't give two shits about anything except the actual playing of basketball. Fluff pieces, trade speculation, player rankings, it's all a bunch of crock. With the exception of watching Durant go America all over the rest of the basketball world in Turkey this summer, there hasn't been any compelling basketball to write about in nearly 3 months.
With every throw-down, Durant cemented his place among the NBA elite. In an unrelated development, Seattle just doubled it's Prozac dosage.
Reason Number 3: I'm a God Dammed writing tutor. The last thing I want to do after I spend the whole day helping students with their papers is come home and write on my own time. Don't think for a second that I'm not fond of what I do--far from it. I have the best gig in the world. But writing fatigue does exist (even if WebMD doesn't recognize it yet) and recently I have experienced it in a big way.
However, all of this is changing. I've been in LA for nearly a month now, meaning I've developed a daily routine that allows for ample personal writing time. The NBA season is rapidly approaching; stuff to write about will start cropping up. And working with kids from Southern California has certainly given me a wealth of stories involving their sporting preferences.
So what does this mean, then? It means you can expect the usual basketball talk, anecdotes about living in the middle of Lakers country, and personal tales involving my attempts to help the misguided kids I tutor see the errors of their rooting ways.
This move has been exciting. I look forward to sharing it with you.
If you don't know why I'd put a picture of Jordan sporting number 45 in a post about making a comeback, do yourself a favor and look it up. Get educated, son.Reason Number 1: I moved. Yup, I relocated my entire life three hundred miles south. Moving from rural-ish Davis to Los Angeles has involved a lifestyle and culture adjustment, and it tended to create a large black hole that engulfed all time around it.
Reason Number 2: It's the NBA offseason. Shit be slow this time of year. Yes, the World Championships just wrapped up (I love you, Kevin "Captain America" Durant). Yes, there are talks about 'Melo leaving Denver for greener (and if the rumor mongers will have us believe, more urban) pastures. Yes, preseason is right around the corner, meaning the regular season looms closer than ever. But here's the thing: it's all talk. And talk is cheap. I might be in the minority here, but I don't give two shits about anything except the actual playing of basketball. Fluff pieces, trade speculation, player rankings, it's all a bunch of crock. With the exception of watching Durant go America all over the rest of the basketball world in Turkey this summer, there hasn't been any compelling basketball to write about in nearly 3 months.
With every throw-down, Durant cemented his place among the NBA elite. In an unrelated development, Seattle just doubled it's Prozac dosage.Reason Number 3: I'm a God Dammed writing tutor. The last thing I want to do after I spend the whole day helping students with their papers is come home and write on my own time. Don't think for a second that I'm not fond of what I do--far from it. I have the best gig in the world. But writing fatigue does exist (even if WebMD doesn't recognize it yet) and recently I have experienced it in a big way.
However, all of this is changing. I've been in LA for nearly a month now, meaning I've developed a daily routine that allows for ample personal writing time. The NBA season is rapidly approaching; stuff to write about will start cropping up. And working with kids from Southern California has certainly given me a wealth of stories involving their sporting preferences.
So what does this mean, then? It means you can expect the usual basketball talk, anecdotes about living in the middle of Lakers country, and personal tales involving my attempts to help the misguided kids I tutor see the errors of their rooting ways.
This move has been exciting. I look forward to sharing it with you.
Monday, August 9, 2010
I Love LA
OK well maybe I don't love LA. Honestly, I'm not sure. But that's a damn catchy (albeit oft played) song and since LA is the place I'll be calling home for the next trip around our humble little sun, it seemed to be fitting.
Just like taking a charge close to the restricted area in the paint, this move is not without its uncertainty. What will kill me first? The traffic? The smog? The California Gurls? I'm not sure, but I hope it's the last one. And I'm damned excited to find out.
Now, one of my major concerns, a concern that friends, family, and coworkers alike have expressed is that I'm moving directly into the heart of Lakers country (No joke--if you Google the address of my apartment, it's directly to the left of the 'L' of the 'Los' in 'Los Angeles'). I'm going right into the belly of the beast. Headlong into that proverbial oncoming train. True that, people of my life. It may suck being surrounded by Kobe Enthusiasts, but it could be worse. How it could be worse exactly, I'm not too sure. But hey, at least it'll be a good social experiment. I'm a glass half-full kind of guy like that.
Anyway, here are four thoughts, mostly basketball related, about Scott Zais taking his talents to South Bea- er Los Angeles.
1. Staying current with the Kings will be a challenge. Up in the Sacramento area, all Kings games are televised. But if you go outside that little radius, there isn't a Kings game to be seen. Hell, it's a small miracle to meet someone that has even heard of the Kings when you get out that far. Anyway, things are looking up for the young core (as I've fanboy ranted before) and I don't want to miss any of it. I want to see DeMarcus Cousins self-combust live on my screen. I want to see Tyreke knife into the lane over and over on his way to a 32-12-13 stat line. I want to hear Grant Napier's rusty baritone and Jerry Reynolds bumbling, yet insightful, perspective.
Watch that right hand, Grant.
Basically, if there's ever been time to cave and spring for that League Pass, it's now. I'll get all that Kings goodness (and those marquee Mid-January Wolves-Pacers showdowns, too) whenever I want it. The seed has been planted with the Mom and Dad; I hope they've picked up what I've put down.
2. I meet the perfect girl... who ends up being a Lakers fan. Now that may sound like a contradiction. "Perfect girl" and "Lakers fan" can't be in the same sentence. That would be like putting Chris Webber and Darko Milicic in the same sentence. Such a thought is ludicrously blasphemous. So, let me rephrase it --she's perfect except for that slight character flaw. I can see the conversation on our first date:
Me: So, do you follow basketball?
Her: Yeah! I love it!
Me: Oh sweet. Who's your team?
Her: Lake show, baby!
Me: Oh...
Her: And my favorite player is...
Me: Don't say it. Please don't say it.
Her: The Black Mamba, foo!
Me: Check please.
As my buddy Robbie put it, she has to be a perfect ten in all other categories for this to fly. I'll have to agree.
3. It'll finally be time to jump on the bandwagon. The Clippers bandwagon, that is. Look, I'm a basketball addict. It can't be helped; the need to watch, read, write, and play the game is ingrained in me. It runs in my veins. So there's no way I'm moving to a new city, a major city boasting two NBA franchises mind you, without following at least one of them. Obviously the Lakers are out (I dislike them just a bit). This leaves the lowly Clippers.
One could say I'm a glutton for punishment, willingly picking only the most terrible of teams to support. But you know what? That's fine with me. I'm used to it. And frankly, they have nowhere to go but up. Not to mention tickets will be dirt cheap, the fans will actually be fans, and I will have a slight chance of bumping into Bill Simmons in the concession line. Here's to me trying to buy him a beer, which will lead to us talking, which will lead to me impressing him with my biting wit, which will lead to me receiving my own column. That's how these things work I hear. Wish me luck.
4. Getting my runs in will be a challenge. Easily one of the most difficult parts of this move will be all the good basketball I will leave behind. The people I run with boast the perfect mix of fun and competition. It's lighthearted when it needs to be, but serious when it counts. Not to mention, I'm not the shortest guy out there (but it is close). Needless to say, I'll have to put out feelers down south.
So there you have it. Four quick thoughts on my move. Wish me luck!
Just like taking a charge close to the restricted area in the paint, this move is not without its uncertainty. What will kill me first? The traffic? The smog? The California Gurls? I'm not sure, but I hope it's the last one. And I'm damned excited to find out.
Now, one of my major concerns, a concern that friends, family, and coworkers alike have expressed is that I'm moving directly into the heart of Lakers country (No joke--if you Google the address of my apartment, it's directly to the left of the 'L' of the 'Los' in 'Los Angeles'). I'm going right into the belly of the beast. Headlong into that proverbial oncoming train. True that, people of my life. It may suck being surrounded by Kobe Enthusiasts, but it could be worse. How it could be worse exactly, I'm not too sure. But hey, at least it'll be a good social experiment. I'm a glass half-full kind of guy like that.
Anyway, here are four thoughts, mostly basketball related, about Scott Zais taking his talents to South Bea- er Los Angeles.
1. Staying current with the Kings will be a challenge. Up in the Sacramento area, all Kings games are televised. But if you go outside that little radius, there isn't a Kings game to be seen. Hell, it's a small miracle to meet someone that has even heard of the Kings when you get out that far. Anyway, things are looking up for the young core (as I've fanboy ranted before) and I don't want to miss any of it. I want to see DeMarcus Cousins self-combust live on my screen. I want to see Tyreke knife into the lane over and over on his way to a 32-12-13 stat line. I want to hear Grant Napier's rusty baritone and Jerry Reynolds bumbling, yet insightful, perspective.
Watch that right hand, Grant.Basically, if there's ever been time to cave and spring for that League Pass, it's now. I'll get all that Kings goodness (and those marquee Mid-January Wolves-Pacers showdowns, too) whenever I want it. The seed has been planted with the Mom and Dad; I hope they've picked up what I've put down.
2. I meet the perfect girl... who ends up being a Lakers fan. Now that may sound like a contradiction. "Perfect girl" and "Lakers fan" can't be in the same sentence. That would be like putting Chris Webber and Darko Milicic in the same sentence. Such a thought is ludicrously blasphemous. So, let me rephrase it --she's perfect except for that slight character flaw. I can see the conversation on our first date:
Me: So, do you follow basketball?
Her: Yeah! I love it!
Me: Oh sweet. Who's your team?
Her: Lake show, baby!
Me: Oh...
Her: And my favorite player is...
Me: Don't say it. Please don't say it.
Her: The Black Mamba, foo!
Me: Check please.
As my buddy Robbie put it, she has to be a perfect ten in all other categories for this to fly. I'll have to agree.
3. It'll finally be time to jump on the bandwagon. The Clippers bandwagon, that is. Look, I'm a basketball addict. It can't be helped; the need to watch, read, write, and play the game is ingrained in me. It runs in my veins. So there's no way I'm moving to a new city, a major city boasting two NBA franchises mind you, without following at least one of them. Obviously the Lakers are out (I dislike them just a bit). This leaves the lowly Clippers.
Clip show, bitches.
4. Getting my runs in will be a challenge. Easily one of the most difficult parts of this move will be all the good basketball I will leave behind. The people I run with boast the perfect mix of fun and competition. It's lighthearted when it needs to be, but serious when it counts. Not to mention, I'm not the shortest guy out there (but it is close). Needless to say, I'll have to put out feelers down south.
So there you have it. Four quick thoughts on my move. Wish me luck!
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Don't Quit Your Day Job
Now that the dust is finally settling from the Nuclear War that was the Free Agency bonanza, I'd like us to take one last look back into the past and examine the 2009-2010 season before it forever disappears in the rear-view mirror. Now, I'm not going to dispense any awards for anything that happened on the court. And I'm not even going to doll out accolades for anything player related; rather, I want us to not forgot some of the absolute terrible predictions so-called "experts" espoused at the beginning of the season.
Look, I understand that predicting anything in sports is like getting Mike Bibby to care on defense. It's really, really tough to do. But some of these predictions were so utterly atrocious that looking back from the future, we can easily laugh.
First up, ESPN's Western Conference Predictions. Ok, sure they got the Lakers at the first seed right. But my dog could've done that. After that? Total crap shoot. ESPN failed to get a single team right. San Antonio, at number 2? Yeah, that's a ludicrously dumb ceiling, guys (overrating the Spurs seemed to be a trend). Then the Hornets at seven!?! Maybe for their chances in the lottery. But by far the worst was the omission of the Thunder. The experts at Bristol had the electrifying Oklahoma City squad ranked below such outfits as the Clippers and Rockets, and placed them just one game better than the Warriors.
Next, their Eastern Conference Predictions. Once again, the incorrectness continues. Sure, they got the Cavaliers right at number 1, but if there's one thing that was established, it was that Cleveland boasted (we can say that in the past tense now, sadly) the best regular season team. They beat all the teams they are supposed to beat, did well on the road, and held serve at home. But when it came to good teams, they folded like a stack of cards. Granted, the experts did nail the top four seeds in the East, albeit in slightly varying orders. The bottom half, though? Not so much. Putting Philly in the playoffs was all kinds of adorable. And omitting the upstart Bucks from the post-season picture entirely was just plain offensive.
Their Rookie of the Year Predictions were also just as bad. See Tyreke Evans or Brandon Jennings in there? Yup, me neither. Moving along.
Then, for Free Agency predictions, ESPN once again swung and missed. Can't blame the panelists on this one, though. They forgot that LeBron James lacked a spine or any shred of decency.
Another pretty bad prediction.
Finally, the good stuff. The Championship predictions. Of all the experts polled, the most popular choice was the Lakers. But somehow, someway, a majority still thought a team other than the Lakers would take home the Larry O'Brien Trophy. The second most popular team was the Cavs. Here's one of the better quotes from one of the panelists:
Hilarously wrong. Now, ESPN wisely removed the name of the author of this quote to avoid embarrassment. Wise choice. But, whoever wrote this clearly had a love of stats and pretended to use them like he knew what he was talking about. The likely culprit? John Hollinger.
Next up, one about the Spurs:
Yeeee-ouch. Couldn't be more wrong.
And one about the Magic:
"Already had three All-stars"? Please tell me you aren't including Rashard Lewis in that. Please.
Now, these all have been as off the mark as a Dwight Howard free throw. But, I've saved the best for last, from one Mr. Bill Simmons.
Let's make one thing clear: I enjoy reading Bill Simmons. I used to love him until I realized that a) he thought Stephen Curry should be ROY over Tyreke Evans because he was "more fun to play with" and b) he gets a lot of mileage by overusing outdated pop-culture references in his writing. But he's an entertaining writer. However, after reading this paragraph, it becomes clear that entertaining is all he is:
Look, I understand that predicting anything in sports is like getting Mike Bibby to care on defense. It's really, really tough to do. But some of these predictions were so utterly atrocious that looking back from the future, we can easily laugh.
Bibby trying out this thing called "guarding his man."
First up, ESPN's Western Conference Predictions. Ok, sure they got the Lakers at the first seed right. But my dog could've done that. After that? Total crap shoot. ESPN failed to get a single team right. San Antonio, at number 2? Yeah, that's a ludicrously dumb ceiling, guys (overrating the Spurs seemed to be a trend). Then the Hornets at seven!?! Maybe for their chances in the lottery. But by far the worst was the omission of the Thunder. The experts at Bristol had the electrifying Oklahoma City squad ranked below such outfits as the Clippers and Rockets, and placed them just one game better than the Warriors.
Next, their Eastern Conference Predictions. Once again, the incorrectness continues. Sure, they got the Cavaliers right at number 1, but if there's one thing that was established, it was that Cleveland boasted (we can say that in the past tense now, sadly) the best regular season team. They beat all the teams they are supposed to beat, did well on the road, and held serve at home. But when it came to good teams, they folded like a stack of cards. Granted, the experts did nail the top four seeds in the East, albeit in slightly varying orders. The bottom half, though? Not so much. Putting Philly in the playoffs was all kinds of adorable. And omitting the upstart Bucks from the post-season picture entirely was just plain offensive.
Their Rookie of the Year Predictions were also just as bad. See Tyreke Evans or Brandon Jennings in there? Yup, me neither. Moving along.
Then, for Free Agency predictions, ESPN once again swung and missed. Can't blame the panelists on this one, though. They forgot that LeBron James lacked a spine or any shred of decency.
Another pretty bad prediction.Finally, the good stuff. The Championship predictions. Of all the experts polled, the most popular choice was the Lakers. But somehow, someway, a majority still thought a team other than the Lakers would take home the Larry O'Brien Trophy. The second most popular team was the Cavs. Here's one of the better quotes from one of the panelists:
- "The Cleveland Cavaliers were the league's most dominant team last season with a 10.0-point differential per 100 possessions. Their probable path to an NBA championship was pushed off course by an Orlando Magic team uniquely suited to exploit their vulnerabilities. Don't count on that happening two years in a row. With the additions of Shaquille O'Neal and some very effective wing defenders, the Cavs have insured that there isn't a system in the league that can hijack their championship hopes in 2009-10."
Next up, one about the Spurs:
- "Championship-caliber teams don't stick around for a decade anymore, but the Spurs keep surviving. I love the offseason additions for Tim Duncan's team, and trust they'll be a top West seed and go all the way."
Yeeee-ouch. Couldn't be more wrong.
And one about the Magic:
- "Orlando, of course. Take the league's best defense, subtract the overrated Hedo Turkoglu and add Vince Carter to a lineup that already had three All-Stars, and what do you have? A team that's ready to handle Boston (again) and Cleveland (again) and get past a somewhat aging Lakers team (to whom the Magic gave away two Finals games in June)."
"Already had three All-stars"? Please tell me you aren't including Rashard Lewis in that. Please.
Now, these all have been as off the mark as a Dwight Howard free throw. But, I've saved the best for last, from one Mr. Bill Simmons.
"Referencing Teen Wolf in every one of my columns? Now that's a lock."
Let's make one thing clear: I enjoy reading Bill Simmons. I used to love him until I realized that a) he thought Stephen Curry should be ROY over Tyreke Evans because he was "more fun to play with" and b) he gets a lot of mileage by overusing outdated pop-culture references in his writing. But he's an entertaining writer. However, after reading this paragraph, it becomes clear that entertaining is all he is:
- "This particular Spurs team has the right level of appropriate fear: fear of aging and complacency coupled with an appreciation for how fast things can fall apart (thanks to Manu's ankle the past two seasons), and beyond that, the reality that their best player might only have one great season left in him. I am a Spurs junkie. I love reading about them. I love the way they put their rosters together and value chemistry so deeply. I love the way they interact during games (as I've written many times). I just get a kick out of them. And the truth is, this might be their last chance for a dominant season with Tim Duncan leading the way. I think it happens. If only because great basketball players have a habit of somehow finding that one great team. They are my pick to win in 2010. Convincingly"
Sunday, July 11, 2010
State of the Blog
Dear Mid Range J faithful (hey mama!)
I apologize for the dearth of updates over the past few weeks. I want to let you know, however, that this drought is not for a lack of wanting to write; rather, it's because I've had a lack of time to write. OK, that's not exactly true--I do have time to write (notice how you tend to make time for the things you love?), it's just that I don't have the energy to write.
I've been mired in back-to-back-back (AAU!) 30+ hour work weeks at my new job. Since it's a gym, and I'm charged with opening it several times a week, my sleep schedule has been all kinds of messed up. Getting up at 3:30am a couple times a week does that to a person. I am but a man, and after all that work, writing is just not something I want to do.
Also, don't know if you noticed, but it's the off-season, and things tend to slow down a bit once basketball stops being played. Shocker I know. I mean, stuff is going on--apparently LeBron decided to sign with some team in Florida. I'm pretty sure it was with the Jacksonville Jaguars. But for the most part, there isn't anything super exciting going on.
In all seriousness, it's stuff like the free agent frenzy that makes it hard to write, at least for me. Sure, I could weigh in on the LeBron Debacle (Lebracle, if you will), or the new three headed monster that is the Miami Heat, or Dan Gilbert's open-letter to Cavs fans (The most shocking facet of the letter? He wrote it in Comic Sans. Really.), but what would that accomplish? Everyone, my grandmother included, has an opinin on it.
All I would be doing would be contributing to the noise. And if the World Cup has taught us anything, it's that we do not need anymore vuvuzelas.
It seems to me sports writing is synonymous with regurgitation. The powers that be (ESPN, Yahoo!, Sports Illustrated, etc) tend to set the agenda, create the talking points, and direct everyone's focus. After a while, everyone starts sounding the same. Watch Around The Horn, then PTI, then Sportscenter, and you'll start to see what I mean.
I don't want to sound the same as everyone else. I know that last sentence is the stuff of angsty teens, but it's true. If I came on here and wrote about how I disagreed with LeBron's handling of his free agency, what would that accomplish? Everyone's already said it. Doing so would be a waste of my time and an even bigger waste of yours.
What does all this mean, then? In a nutshell: it's tough coming up with fresh takes on things. And if I do find something unique to chime in on, it takes a fair amount of time to write it up and give it that nice coat of paint.
But I digress. My point is this:I'll definitely keep The Mid Range J updated, just not as regularly as I used to. But don't tune me out, por favor. I definitely have some ideas for posts, it's just they may not come as regularly as they used to.
Oh, and go Kings.
I apologize for the dearth of updates over the past few weeks. I want to let you know, however, that this drought is not for a lack of wanting to write; rather, it's because I've had a lack of time to write. OK, that's not exactly true--I do have time to write (notice how you tend to make time for the things you love?), it's just that I don't have the energy to write.
I've been mired in back-to-back-back (AAU!) 30+ hour work weeks at my new job. Since it's a gym, and I'm charged with opening it several times a week, my sleep schedule has been all kinds of messed up. Getting up at 3:30am a couple times a week does that to a person. I am but a man, and after all that work, writing is just not something I want to do.
Also, don't know if you noticed, but it's the off-season, and things tend to slow down a bit once basketball stops being played. Shocker I know. I mean, stuff is going on--apparently LeBron decided to sign with some team in Florida. I'm pretty sure it was with the Jacksonville Jaguars. But for the most part, there isn't anything super exciting going on.
In all seriousness, it's stuff like the free agent frenzy that makes it hard to write, at least for me. Sure, I could weigh in on the LeBron Debacle (Lebracle, if you will), or the new three headed monster that is the Miami Heat, or Dan Gilbert's open-letter to Cavs fans (The most shocking facet of the letter? He wrote it in Comic Sans. Really.), but what would that accomplish? Everyone, my grandmother included, has an opinin on it.
All I would be doing would be contributing to the noise. And if the World Cup has taught us anything, it's that we do not need anymore vuvuzelas.
Or Soccer fans.
It seems to me sports writing is synonymous with regurgitation. The powers that be (ESPN, Yahoo!, Sports Illustrated, etc) tend to set the agenda, create the talking points, and direct everyone's focus. After a while, everyone starts sounding the same. Watch Around The Horn, then PTI, then Sportscenter, and you'll start to see what I mean.
I don't want to sound the same as everyone else. I know that last sentence is the stuff of angsty teens, but it's true. If I came on here and wrote about how I disagreed with LeBron's handling of his free agency, what would that accomplish? Everyone's already said it. Doing so would be a waste of my time and an even bigger waste of yours.
What does all this mean, then? In a nutshell: it's tough coming up with fresh takes on things. And if I do find something unique to chime in on, it takes a fair amount of time to write it up and give it that nice coat of paint.
But I digress. My point is this:I'll definitely keep The Mid Range J updated, just not as regularly as I used to. But don't tune me out, por favor. I definitely have some ideas for posts, it's just they may not come as regularly as they used to.
Oh, and go Kings.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Fashionistas
It's safe to say that over the years the style of the NBA has changed significantly. From Cousy's booty shorts, to Dr. J's rocking 'fro, to Walton's Wimbledon outfit (truly one of the greatest looks in the history of time), back to, um, Stockton's booty shorts, the NBA has certainly gone through the spin cycle when it comes to fashion.
Needless to say, the current generation perennially mocks the styles of yore. What were they thinking? We muse. How could they get up in the morning, put on those shorts, and think that looked good? Great questions. No one, ever, needs to see that much man-leg. Ever. And some of the hairstyles, like the buzz-fade (think Pippen circa 1994) were questionable at best. You won't get any argument from me there.
Here's the rub though: while some styles of old may be an affront to the senses, this current generation has no room to talk. Without a doubt, we will look back at this era and wonder "what-in-the-hell-they-were-thinking?!?!", more so than any other time. And there is one particular facet of today's fashion that puts this generation in sole possession of the title "Worst Dressed Ever". It's not the overly baggy shorts. It's not the corn-rows. It's not the neck tattoos.
It is, of course, the shooter sleeve.
The amount of things going on in that moment created a perfect storm of exposure for the sleeve. A transcendent star (Iverson) on the biggest stage (the NBA Finals) draining a crucial crunch time shot (helping seal the 107-101 upset) over an unlikeable opposing defender (Tyrone Lue) playing for a heavy favorite (the Lakers) through a stalwart combination of grit, skill, and determination (that shot capped off an unanswered 7 point offensive explosion for AI) sealed the deal. If that was not enough, Iverson's swagger-tastic walk over a prone Lue further cemented its staying power.
That shot was replayed over and over, and as a result, the sleeve got exceeding (if not unintentional) nation-wide exposure.
And with that, it was off to the races. Players (without any recorded instance of elbow injuries) in the following seasons began to wear the shooter sleeve. Superstars took to it as well; Kobe Bryant, LeBron James, Dwayne Wade, Chris Paul, and more all embraced the sleeve. They took it too adorable levels too, coordinating their their shooter sleeves with their uniforms and other accessories.
Now, there are theories abound regarding the sleeve. Some conspiracy theorists state that many players have to wear it to cover up gang-related tattoos. Others say that the padding is needed thanks in part to the increased physicality of the modern game. NBA players would have you believe that they wear it because it prevents sweat from the forearm from reaching the shooting hand while simultaneously aiding blood circulation. There's also the school of thought that it could prevent future elbow injuries. The NBA store doesn't care what you think; they just want you to pick one up for only $14.99 (For a tube of spandex with the NBA logo on it? What a steal!)
Having worn one myself for a couple games of pick-up (borrowed it, I swear), I call bollocks. The only thing it does is make your arm ridiculously, grossly, been-in-the-sauna-for-an-hour sweaty. It's also a major distraction; every time I'd pull up for a shot, my eye would be drawn to the large black-tube engulfing my poor arm. Needless to say, my shooting performance suffered.
The one benefit of it all is this: in thirty years when we're not busy shuttling around in our flying cars or trying to liberate ourselves from our despotic robot overlords, we can look back on this time in the NBA fondly and get a good chuckle out of the style that was.
And look on the bright-side: at least they aren't wearing cut-offs anymore.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Needless to say, the current generation perennially mocks the styles of yore. What were they thinking? We muse. How could they get up in the morning, put on those shorts, and think that looked good? Great questions. No one, ever, needs to see that much man-leg. Ever. And some of the hairstyles, like the buzz-fade (think Pippen circa 1994) were questionable at best. You won't get any argument from me there.
Here's the rub though: while some styles of old may be an affront to the senses, this current generation has no room to talk. Without a doubt, we will look back at this era and wonder "what-in-the-hell-they-were-thinking?!?!", more so than any other time. And there is one particular facet of today's fashion that puts this generation in sole possession of the title "Worst Dressed Ever". It's not the overly baggy shorts. It's not the corn-rows. It's not the neck tattoos.
It is, of course, the shooter sleeve.
I'd gouge my eyes out too if I had to wear that thing.
A horrible hybrid between a broken condom and a tube sock, the shooter sleeve is so unfathomably dumb looking that it borders on the incomprehensible. Who thought it would be cool to wrap your shooting arm (the arm that you want to grant as much freedom of movement as possible) in saran wrap?
Turns out this isn't a rhetorical question. The first instance of it can be traced back to Allen Iverson. The small dog with a huge heart, AI first sported the sleeve for actual utilitarian reasons. In 2001 doctors prescribed the band to help protect his right elbow from a recurring bout with bursitis. Of course, that year Iverson lead his ragtag 76ers squad to the NBA Finals against a juggernaut Lakers team, handing Shaq, Kobe and company their only playoff defeat that year during game 1 of the NBA Finals.
One moment in particular from that game cemented the shooter sleeve's popularity:
Turns out this isn't a rhetorical question. The first instance of it can be traced back to Allen Iverson. The small dog with a huge heart, AI first sported the sleeve for actual utilitarian reasons. In 2001 doctors prescribed the band to help protect his right elbow from a recurring bout with bursitis. Of course, that year Iverson lead his ragtag 76ers squad to the NBA Finals against a juggernaut Lakers team, handing Shaq, Kobe and company their only playoff defeat that year during game 1 of the NBA Finals.
One moment in particular from that game cemented the shooter sleeve's popularity:
The amount of things going on in that moment created a perfect storm of exposure for the sleeve. A transcendent star (Iverson) on the biggest stage (the NBA Finals) draining a crucial crunch time shot (helping seal the 107-101 upset) over an unlikeable opposing defender (Tyrone Lue) playing for a heavy favorite (the Lakers) through a stalwart combination of grit, skill, and determination (that shot capped off an unanswered 7 point offensive explosion for AI) sealed the deal. If that was not enough, Iverson's swagger-tastic walk over a prone Lue further cemented its staying power.
That shot was replayed over and over, and as a result, the sleeve got exceeding (if not unintentional) nation-wide exposure.
And with that, it was off to the races. Players (without any recorded instance of elbow injuries) in the following seasons began to wear the shooter sleeve. Superstars took to it as well; Kobe Bryant, LeBron James, Dwayne Wade, Chris Paul, and more all embraced the sleeve. They took it too adorable levels too, coordinating their their shooter sleeves with their uniforms and other accessories.
Now, there are theories abound regarding the sleeve. Some conspiracy theorists state that many players have to wear it to cover up gang-related tattoos. Others say that the padding is needed thanks in part to the increased physicality of the modern game. NBA players would have you believe that they wear it because it prevents sweat from the forearm from reaching the shooting hand while simultaneously aiding blood circulation. There's also the school of thought that it could prevent future elbow injuries. The NBA store doesn't care what you think; they just want you to pick one up for only $14.99 (For a tube of spandex with the NBA logo on it? What a steal!)
Having worn one myself for a couple games of pick-up (borrowed it, I swear), I call bollocks. The only thing it does is make your arm ridiculously, grossly, been-in-the-sauna-for-an-hour sweaty. It's also a major distraction; every time I'd pull up for a shot, my eye would be drawn to the large black-tube engulfing my poor arm. Needless to say, my shooting performance suffered.
The one benefit of it all is this: in thirty years when we're not busy shuttling around in our flying cars or trying to liberate ourselves from our despotic robot overlords, we can look back on this time in the NBA fondly and get a good chuckle out of the style that was.
And look on the bright-side: at least they aren't wearing cut-offs anymore.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Crowned
I have to admit--going into Thursdays NBA draft I was a bit apprehensive. Getting ones hopes up for something that isn't a guaranteed, take-it-to-the-bank deal is never a smart move. It's true with gambling, the housing market, and it's certainly true with sports. Of course, everyone in the Sacramento region, from Vacaville to Fair Oaks, from Redding to Modesto, threw that sage wisdom out the window and went ahead and got excited anyway.
For once, we hoped it would pay off.
The Kings, with the 5th overall selection, were slated to take DeMarcus Cousins, the big, bad, bruiser, out of Kentucky. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. He was going to anchor, to solidify, not just the Kings' front court rotation, but the entire rebuilding process. How could we not get excited?
But as is the nature of sport (and the Kings are no exception), heartbreak is never far away, threatening, looming over everything like a haunting specter. I felt pretty confident about the first three picks: Wall, Turner, Favors. That seemed a lock for 1-2-3. But Minnesota at the 4th spot? Now that worried me. The last thing they needed was another big (they got their hands full in that department with a moody Al Jefferson, an under-played Kevin Love, and... Darko?), but there's something in the water up there that makes them a little pick crazy. Back-to-Back Point Guard selections in the first round of last years draft, plus another later on that same evening (that makes for three point-men total, for those of you scoring at home) understandably warranted that concern. What would have stopped them from nabbing Cousins?
So it was with great trepidation that I watched David Stern (who was still practically glowing from the Lakers' championship victory. Which, by the way, he felt compelled to remind us of again. And you wonder why he gets booed?) take the podium for Minny's pick. He cleared his voice, and in that thick New York accent said:
With the fourth pick in the two-thousand-and-ten NBA Draft, the Minnesota Timberwolves select... Wesley Johnson, from Syracuse University.
Sigh of relief. Cousins was still available, floating in the ether. But honestly, I was still a bit concerned; until his name was called and his face masked by that large brimmed hat (aside: they must've found those lids in a box marked '1993'), I would not rest easy.
After 4 long minutes of Jay Bilas praising Johnson's "open court athleticism" and lauding his ability "to not just be a position player, but be a basketball player" (analysis!), the Commish once again took to the podium to announce Sacto's pick.
This is what followed.
Hell. Yes.
A 292-pound, 6'-11'' piece to the puzzle. With that selection, The Kings just made perhaps the most dramatic off-season turnaround EVER. The Kings took Spencer Hawes and Andres Nocioni and somehow morphed that into Samuel Dalembert and Demarcus Cousins. Holy hell. Incredible.
The frontline is now solid. Hustle guys like Brockman and Landry (my top two favorite Kings) will do the dirty work, while Sammy and the rook will be busy playing home-run derby with lay-ups. Soft no more. Throw in Casspi and Greene's steady development. Mix in the veteran savvy of Francisco Garcia and Beno Udrih (the other, other Slovenian) and you have your self a pretty good team.
And the best part? The cherry on top? The Kings also have this guy.
The Kings are one more guard away, I'd say, from calling this rebuilding process all done. And there won't be a dearth of options when it comes to that. Sactown Royalty has a nice little list of who they could pick-up. My personal favorites? Ronnie Brewer or Steve Blake. Or bring Sergio Rodriguez back. I'd be down with that too.
After that, it's off to the races for the Kings. I see a take-no-prisoners, ass-kicking, merciless squad in the making. I see the Kings sneaking into the playoffs and giving the perennial powerhouses a scare. I see Tyreke slipping into MVP conversations pretty soon. I see ESPN writers putting together pieces like "Are the Kings back?" I see the Kings and Thunder going at it for years down the road, with Sacramento sadly hating Kevin Durant at the end of it all. And, if I really let my imagination go wild, I can see, probably in 5-6 years or so, this squad blowing out a rapidly fading Lakers team in a packed, rabid, and out-of-control Arco Arena.
Granted, I realize this kind of thinking is the stuff of broken hearts, the stuff I said no one should do at the beginning of this piece. But hey, what's life without a little risk, a little hurt? And if it works out in the end what a pay-off it'll be. Even if it doesn't happen, if Cousins is a bust and things fall apart, it'll be worth it. Because the feeling, the feeling of potential? That's hard to beat.
Hear that sound? That rumbling? Yeah, that's right. That's the roar of the Sacramento Kings. Get on board now or get out of the way.
For once, we hoped it would pay off.
The Kings, with the 5th overall selection, were slated to take DeMarcus Cousins, the big, bad, bruiser, out of Kentucky. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. He was going to anchor, to solidify, not just the Kings' front court rotation, but the entire rebuilding process. How could we not get excited?
But as is the nature of sport (and the Kings are no exception), heartbreak is never far away, threatening, looming over everything like a haunting specter. I felt pretty confident about the first three picks: Wall, Turner, Favors. That seemed a lock for 1-2-3. But Minnesota at the 4th spot? Now that worried me. The last thing they needed was another big (they got their hands full in that department with a moody Al Jefferson, an under-played Kevin Love, and... Darko?), but there's something in the water up there that makes them a little pick crazy. Back-to-Back Point Guard selections in the first round of last years draft, plus another later on that same evening (that makes for three point-men total, for those of you scoring at home) understandably warranted that concern. What would have stopped them from nabbing Cousins?
Last time Kings fans were excited about the entire team? These guys were on the floor. We all know how that ended.
So it was with great trepidation that I watched David Stern (who was still practically glowing from the Lakers' championship victory. Which, by the way, he felt compelled to remind us of again. And you wonder why he gets booed?) take the podium for Minny's pick. He cleared his voice, and in that thick New York accent said:
With the fourth pick in the two-thousand-and-ten NBA Draft, the Minnesota Timberwolves select... Wesley Johnson, from Syracuse University.
Sigh of relief. Cousins was still available, floating in the ether. But honestly, I was still a bit concerned; until his name was called and his face masked by that large brimmed hat (aside: they must've found those lids in a box marked '1993'), I would not rest easy.
After 4 long minutes of Jay Bilas praising Johnson's "open court athleticism" and lauding his ability "to not just be a position player, but be a basketball player" (analysis!), the Commish once again took to the podium to announce Sacto's pick.
This is what followed.
Hell. Yes.
A 292-pound, 6'-11'' piece to the puzzle. With that selection, The Kings just made perhaps the most dramatic off-season turnaround EVER. The Kings took Spencer Hawes and Andres Nocioni and somehow morphed that into Samuel Dalembert and Demarcus Cousins. Holy hell. Incredible.
The frontline is now solid. Hustle guys like Brockman and Landry (my top two favorite Kings) will do the dirty work, while Sammy and the rook will be busy playing home-run derby with lay-ups. Soft no more. Throw in Casspi and Greene's steady development. Mix in the veteran savvy of Francisco Garcia and Beno Udrih (the other, other Slovenian) and you have your self a pretty good team.
And the best part? The cherry on top? The Kings also have this guy.
Hey there, kiddo.
The Kings are one more guard away, I'd say, from calling this rebuilding process all done. And there won't be a dearth of options when it comes to that. Sactown Royalty has a nice little list of who they could pick-up. My personal favorites? Ronnie Brewer or Steve Blake. Or bring Sergio Rodriguez back. I'd be down with that too.
After that, it's off to the races for the Kings. I see a take-no-prisoners, ass-kicking, merciless squad in the making. I see the Kings sneaking into the playoffs and giving the perennial powerhouses a scare. I see Tyreke slipping into MVP conversations pretty soon. I see ESPN writers putting together pieces like "Are the Kings back?" I see the Kings and Thunder going at it for years down the road, with Sacramento sadly hating Kevin Durant at the end of it all. And, if I really let my imagination go wild, I can see, probably in 5-6 years or so, this squad blowing out a rapidly fading Lakers team in a packed, rabid, and out-of-control Arco Arena.
Granted, I realize this kind of thinking is the stuff of broken hearts, the stuff I said no one should do at the beginning of this piece. But hey, what's life without a little risk, a little hurt? And if it works out in the end what a pay-off it'll be. Even if it doesn't happen, if Cousins is a bust and things fall apart, it'll be worth it. Because the feeling, the feeling of potential? That's hard to beat.
Hear that sound? That rumbling? Yeah, that's right. That's the roar of the Sacramento Kings. Get on board now or get out of the way.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
"Hey, you guys need one more?" part 2
ESPN Page 2's Patrick Hruby wrote a pair of great articles detailing some of the different types of ballers that lace it up and take it to the blacktop for pick-up games. You can find both of them here and here. While both articles were super excellent, I still felt they were a tad incomplete. So, like any good writer, I blatantly ripped off the idea and wrote my own piece about it. Over this week and the next I'll detail all the guys I've met in my time playing and identify their closest NBA equivalent. Hopefully, after reading this, the next time you hear someone ask, "hey, you guys need one more?" you'll know exactly what you are getting into if you let him play.
You can find Part 1 here.
7. Mr. Deceptively Athletic
You line up against this guy when the game starts and you think to yourself "oh hell yeah, I got this." This guys isn't impressive by any stretch--with a little extra padding going on on his underside, maybe a bit of a double chin, lots of sweating, and the like, you'll think you are going up against the Michelin Man. You figure that this game will be easy. Take a breather on the defensive end and watch with hilarity as the guy tries to dribble around you. Visions of going off like Dwayne Wade on the offensive end fill your head, too. Beating him off the dribble, slicing through the lane, drawing double teams, and generally causing massive havoc for your opponents. Oh yes, it'll be great.
Of course, as usual, nothing is as it seems. Turns out, somehow, someway, this guy is actually in good shape. Underneath that pudgy, squishy exterior is a body that won't quit. He'll stay with you at all times on the defensive end, crushing your dreams of taking him to the hoop faster than Ty Lawson in the open court. Offensively too, he'll do his thing. His large size will give way to disarming quickness, quickness that will see you looking at the back of his sweat-stained shirt more times than you will care to admit.
Closest NBA equivalent: Paul Pierce
8. The Housefly
Now this guy? The Housefly? Now he's annoying. He gets the idea of defense, sure, but he takes it too far. Way too far. He's in good shape, and was probably taught how to play defense once or twice back in the fifth grade. But, that's all that he has, all he knows. He was taught to stay on his man, to stay in front of him. So he does that. Every moment of the game, no matter what.
You won't be able to get the ball because this guy will essentially hug you for the duration of the contest. From baseline to baseline, he'll mirror your every move: going right when you go left, left when you go right, stopping when you stop. His offensive game hasn't been seen since the first George Bush and he won't provide any help defense should one of his teammates need it. He has but one goal in mind: to smother his man with annoying, overly-enthusiastic defense.
Lucky you.
Closest NBA equivalent: Shane Battier
9. The Intentional Fouler
We all hate The Intentional Fouler. This guy is an ass. Pick-up basketball is a gentleman's game, governed by unspoken rules that all participants adhere to and revere. Offense calls the fouls, offense takes the ball out at the top of the three point line. There is no fouling out, no shooting free-throws, none of that.
The Fouler is the one jerk that realizes this and exploits it. If he gets beat off the dribble, he'll wrap up his man. The Fouler will hip-check a guy if it looks like an easy lay-up is eminent. When people get mad at him for essentially flagrantly fouling everything in sight, he'll exclaim with pride "no easy buckets!" The Fouler doesn't get it--slapping guys isn't playing tough defense; it's being a jerk. He should watch the Charlotte Bobcats, now they play tough defense. What he's doing is essentially reenacting Wrestlemania.
If you are playing this guy, have a first-aid kit ready, because you're going to need to clean-up all the scrapes and bruises you're going to get from crashing to the floor every time you smell the basket.
Closest NBA equivalent: Jason Thompson
10. The Free-Throw Shooter
Ah, The Free-Throw Shooter. You can't blame him for what he does, but it's still a damn shame he's around. All too often, teams are selected by shooting free throws. Whoever makes the first 5 free-throws are on a team. Whoever is left are on the other. If there's an odd number, the last guy to make his freebie doesn't play. Easy peezy.
The Free-Throw Shooter is the definition of the one-trick pony. He has no other discernable skill, but he can sink free-throw after free-throw. He'll play in every possible game he can play in, solely because he knows how to hit his freebies. He probably sucks and his team may lose over and over because of him, but he doesn't need to worry or ever face the repercussions of his suckage (suckage is definitely a word. Look it up). He'll get to play in place of more skilled, deserving players simply because he cultivated a unique and specialized ability to hit a fifteen foot shot with high fidelity.
Closest NBA equivalent: Mo Williams
"Don't worry y'all--I made it!"
(Deng in the background): "Sigh..."
11. The Shawn Bradly
By far the most frustrating guy to play with. Not because he annoys other people. Not because he sucks. Not because he constantly fouls. No, he's the most frustrating guy to play with because all you can think about when he's on the court is wasted potential.
This guy is approaching the 7-foot range. He has the height to stare Dirk Nowitzki in the eye and probably, with a little effort, could hit his head on the rim if he jumped. The one problem is that this guy has absolutely no skill at all. He'll airball five-footers. His put-backs will rocket off the backboard with enough velocity to take someone's head off. He doesn't understand the screen and roll, boxing out, or running the open court.
He won't try to, but he'll amass blocks and rebounds by the dozens, simply by stretching out his arms. He really is wasted potential. Watching him play, you can't help but think what you could do on the court if only you had his size.
Closest NBA equivalent: Dwight Howard
12. The One-Hit-Wonder
Now, most of these guys we see over and over. The tall guy who can't play, the guy who fouls like it's on a clearance sale, the lefty, the guy who jokes around too much. Yeah, those cats are all too familiar. But The One-Hit-Wonder? He's just the opposite.
This guy is great to play with. He's a good teammate, a hustler, knows when to pass and all that. He'll help you up off the ground if he fouls you too hard, saying "my bad, man," giving you a pat on the back and making sure you're ok. He's funny and light-hearted when he needs to be, but serious and competitive when it counts. He's good, but not overly so. He meshes right in, and makes friends with everyone. This guy is as chill a bro as they come.
But here's the kicker: after today, you'll never see him again. Ever. It'll be like he never existed. Ask if him he plays here often and he'll say "yeah all the time!" Then he'll grab his gear, stand up and explain that there's a place he has to be. As soon as he's out of sight, that's it. More elusive than the Sasquatch and Loch Ness monster's lovechild, you will never see The One-Hit-Wonder ever again.
Such a shame.
Closest NBA equivalent: Grant Hill
You can find Part 1 here.
7. Mr. Deceptively Athletic
You line up against this guy when the game starts and you think to yourself "oh hell yeah, I got this." This guys isn't impressive by any stretch--with a little extra padding going on on his underside, maybe a bit of a double chin, lots of sweating, and the like, you'll think you are going up against the Michelin Man. You figure that this game will be easy. Take a breather on the defensive end and watch with hilarity as the guy tries to dribble around you. Visions of going off like Dwayne Wade on the offensive end fill your head, too. Beating him off the dribble, slicing through the lane, drawing double teams, and generally causing massive havoc for your opponents. Oh yes, it'll be great.
Of course, as usual, nothing is as it seems. Turns out, somehow, someway, this guy is actually in good shape. Underneath that pudgy, squishy exterior is a body that won't quit. He'll stay with you at all times on the defensive end, crushing your dreams of taking him to the hoop faster than Ty Lawson in the open court. Offensively too, he'll do his thing. His large size will give way to disarming quickness, quickness that will see you looking at the back of his sweat-stained shirt more times than you will care to admit.
Closest NBA equivalent: Paul Pierce
"Yeah, me and the flab under my arms just beat you off the dribble. Go think about that for a bit."
8. The Housefly
Now this guy? The Housefly? Now he's annoying. He gets the idea of defense, sure, but he takes it too far. Way too far. He's in good shape, and was probably taught how to play defense once or twice back in the fifth grade. But, that's all that he has, all he knows. He was taught to stay on his man, to stay in front of him. So he does that. Every moment of the game, no matter what.
You won't be able to get the ball because this guy will essentially hug you for the duration of the contest. From baseline to baseline, he'll mirror your every move: going right when you go left, left when you go right, stopping when you stop. His offensive game hasn't been seen since the first George Bush and he won't provide any help defense should one of his teammates need it. He has but one goal in mind: to smother his man with annoying, overly-enthusiastic defense.
Lucky you.
Closest NBA equivalent: Shane Battier
Dude, Shane, cut it out. We get it. Seriously.
9. The Intentional Fouler
We all hate The Intentional Fouler. This guy is an ass. Pick-up basketball is a gentleman's game, governed by unspoken rules that all participants adhere to and revere. Offense calls the fouls, offense takes the ball out at the top of the three point line. There is no fouling out, no shooting free-throws, none of that.
The Fouler is the one jerk that realizes this and exploits it. If he gets beat off the dribble, he'll wrap up his man. The Fouler will hip-check a guy if it looks like an easy lay-up is eminent. When people get mad at him for essentially flagrantly fouling everything in sight, he'll exclaim with pride "no easy buckets!" The Fouler doesn't get it--slapping guys isn't playing tough defense; it's being a jerk. He should watch the Charlotte Bobcats, now they play tough defense. What he's doing is essentially reenacting Wrestlemania.
If you are playing this guy, have a first-aid kit ready, because you're going to need to clean-up all the scrapes and bruises you're going to get from crashing to the floor every time you smell the basket.
Closest NBA equivalent: Jason Thompson
Goddammit, JT.
10. The Free-Throw Shooter
Ah, The Free-Throw Shooter. You can't blame him for what he does, but it's still a damn shame he's around. All too often, teams are selected by shooting free throws. Whoever makes the first 5 free-throws are on a team. Whoever is left are on the other. If there's an odd number, the last guy to make his freebie doesn't play. Easy peezy.
The Free-Throw Shooter is the definition of the one-trick pony. He has no other discernable skill, but he can sink free-throw after free-throw. He'll play in every possible game he can play in, solely because he knows how to hit his freebies. He probably sucks and his team may lose over and over because of him, but he doesn't need to worry or ever face the repercussions of his suckage (suckage is definitely a word. Look it up). He'll get to play in place of more skilled, deserving players simply because he cultivated a unique and specialized ability to hit a fifteen foot shot with high fidelity.
Closest NBA equivalent: Mo Williams
(Deng in the background): "Sigh..."
11. The Shawn Bradly
By far the most frustrating guy to play with. Not because he annoys other people. Not because he sucks. Not because he constantly fouls. No, he's the most frustrating guy to play with because all you can think about when he's on the court is wasted potential.
This guy is approaching the 7-foot range. He has the height to stare Dirk Nowitzki in the eye and probably, with a little effort, could hit his head on the rim if he jumped. The one problem is that this guy has absolutely no skill at all. He'll airball five-footers. His put-backs will rocket off the backboard with enough velocity to take someone's head off. He doesn't understand the screen and roll, boxing out, or running the open court.
He won't try to, but he'll amass blocks and rebounds by the dozens, simply by stretching out his arms. He really is wasted potential. Watching him play, you can't help but think what you could do on the court if only you had his size.
Closest NBA equivalent: Dwight Howard
Howard, taking a shot just a bit outside his range.
12. The One-Hit-Wonder
Now, most of these guys we see over and over. The tall guy who can't play, the guy who fouls like it's on a clearance sale, the lefty, the guy who jokes around too much. Yeah, those cats are all too familiar. But The One-Hit-Wonder? He's just the opposite.
This guy is great to play with. He's a good teammate, a hustler, knows when to pass and all that. He'll help you up off the ground if he fouls you too hard, saying "my bad, man," giving you a pat on the back and making sure you're ok. He's funny and light-hearted when he needs to be, but serious and competitive when it counts. He's good, but not overly so. He meshes right in, and makes friends with everyone. This guy is as chill a bro as they come.
But here's the kicker: after today, you'll never see him again. Ever. It'll be like he never existed. Ask if him he plays here often and he'll say "yeah all the time!" Then he'll grab his gear, stand up and explain that there's a place he has to be. As soon as he's out of sight, that's it. More elusive than the Sasquatch and Loch Ness monster's lovechild, you will never see The One-Hit-Wonder ever again.
Such a shame.
Closest NBA equivalent: Grant Hill
Just like Grant Hill, The One-Hit-Wonder is all about what could've been.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
A Thorn In My Side
It's been a tad under a week since The Mid Range J last updated. The past few days have been busy; graduating from college, celebrating the end of this chapter in my life with family and friends, and enjoying the sudden lack of responsibility during my days have all played a part. But there's a bigger, more sinister reason why there's been some time off: these playoffs, ever so slowly, are destroying my love of the NBA.
Now, don't get up in arms thinking I hate basketball (never ever) or that I'm writing off the NBA; I'm just losing interest in it thanks to a combination of fatigue, boredom, and annoyance. I brought in my good friend Devil's Advocate to have a little discussion about all this.
Devil's Advocate: Fatigue? Why fatigue?
Scott: Why Fatigue? Well, shit, the NBA playoffs have been going on since April 17th, 2010. Check your calendars now--it's June 17th, 2010. For those of you going to UCD, that's since Picnic Day. That's two entire Goddamned months of playoff basketball. I don't care about giving an underdog a chance in the playoffs; in a seven game series, there are rarely upsets of that magnitude. A two-month post-season is an absolute joke. Remember the Bulls? Or the Bobcats? Hell, the Blazers or Mavericks? Yeah, just barely, right?
The NBA can only go to the well so many times, and frankly, allowing over 50% of the teams in the league into the playoffs is really pushing it. Too many games, too many blowouts.
Devil's Advocate: Boredom!?! Game 7 of the NBA Finals is tonight! How could you be bored?!?!
Scott: It's quite possible. Pardon my cynicism, but honestly, there's nothing else to talk about. Check any of the major news outlets that cover this stuff; there's nothing else to say. All of the storylines have been beaten to death.
Celtics-Lakers rivalry? Check. Kobe's legacy? Check. The legacy of the Big 3? Check. The health of KG and Bynum's (and now Perkins') knee? Check. Ray Allen's fleeting jumper? Check. The bench play of both teams? Check. Paul Pierce and Ron Artest? Check. Rondo becoming the best point guard alive? Check. (That one is total crock, by the way. If you can't make an 18 footer as a guard, you can't be the best at your position.)
There's nothing new anymore, nothing exciting. No amount of analysis or posturing will change anything. Just let them play this last game already.
Devil's Advocate: But annoyance? Really?
Scott: Oh most definitely. I'm especially annoyed with these two franchises and their respective fanbases. Yes, I'm an open and proud Lakers hater. But don't let that trick you into thinking I'm a Celtics homer. Far from it; both teams have won way too many times. And because of that, their fans have become bloated, feasting on victory with unchecked gluttony. I'm sick and tired of seeing openly ignorant and mindless Facebook statuses about this series. People who clearly don't follow the sport until late May all of a sudden get a strong desire to exclaim their love for a team after every big game. Ask them cursory questions about their teams, or hell, the sport, and you'll get terrible answers in return.
Trying to have thoughtful conversations with these people results in nothing but frustration, and what makes it even more unbearable is that "their team" will likely win the championship.
But I'm annoyed for many other reasons as well. The officiating, for instance, irks me to no end. No, this series hasn't been terribly biased one way or the other. But what it has been is straight-up awful. Too many touch fouls from the beginning have taken major players out of games all series long. But it goes deeper than that. Maybe it's just me, but the charge/blocking foul distinction has really gotten under my skin. It's honestly just a guess when it comes to that call now. Those guys are moving with such speed and force that an official doesn't have time to see the contact, find the location of the defenders feet, and ascertain if they are firmly planted to make the right call. The result? An uninformed guess.
These uninformed guesses open the door for super-star treatment (If someone like Kobe gets in the lane to stop a drive? It's most definitely going the other way), make-up calls, and the like. It'll never happen, but the NBA needs to reform the foul system. Get rid of fouling out. And absolutely change the charge/block call distinction. All it does is lead to flopping and missed calls.
And don't even get me started on the arbitrariness of the new official reviewing system. Eeeesh.
Devil's Advocate: Well, this is all very depressing Scott. Is there a cure for your Summertime Blues?
Scott: First of all, great song, Devil's Advocate. And second of all, maybe. Perhaps, like a relationship on the rocks, I just need a break. At least from the playoffs. All the teams in the playoffs get so much media time that I really have reached a type of overload. I'm tired of hearing about the Cavaliers, the Suns, the Magic, the Nuggets, and definitely the Lakers and Celtics. Let's talk about the Timberwolves again. Will Kevin Love finally get some playing time? Will Al Jefferson return to form after his bad knee injury? How about their point-guard situation? Sure Jonny Flynn is good, but what about that whole Ricky Rubio debacle?
Or the 76ers? Or the Warriors? Or the Clippers? The less successful teams are interesting to talk about as well.
I want fantasy basketball to come back too. Updating rosters, checking the depth charts of every single team to get an edge, refreshing the injury page on Yahoo! Sports for updates, working my way through mock drafts--it's all awesome. It adds a whole new layer of enjoyment to what is often a long season.
Maybe I should just detox from it all; take the summer off, watch some baseball, go swimming, enjoy good BBQ, good beer, and good company.
Thankfully, this season ends tonight, no matter what. The boneheaded analysts will go quiet for a little bit, the bandwagon fans will switch to baseball and start rooting for the Red Sox, and I'll be able to take some time away and write about the aspects of the sport of basketball that I enjoy. At least I have that to look forward to, right?
Devil's Advocate: Hey Scott! ESPN just had a piece discussing LeBron's Free Agency!
Scott: Goddammit! Fine. You win, Devil's Advocate. You win.
Now, don't get up in arms thinking I hate basketball (never ever) or that I'm writing off the NBA; I'm just losing interest in it thanks to a combination of fatigue, boredom, and annoyance. I brought in my good friend Devil's Advocate to have a little discussion about all this.
Devil's Advocate: Fatigue? Why fatigue?
Scott: Why Fatigue? Well, shit, the NBA playoffs have been going on since April 17th, 2010. Check your calendars now--it's June 17th, 2010. For those of you going to UCD, that's since Picnic Day. That's two entire Goddamned months of playoff basketball. I don't care about giving an underdog a chance in the playoffs; in a seven game series, there are rarely upsets of that magnitude. A two-month post-season is an absolute joke. Remember the Bulls? Or the Bobcats? Hell, the Blazers or Mavericks? Yeah, just barely, right?
Recall this exciting action from Round 1? Of course not.
The NBA can only go to the well so many times, and frankly, allowing over 50% of the teams in the league into the playoffs is really pushing it. Too many games, too many blowouts.
Devil's Advocate: Boredom!?! Game 7 of the NBA Finals is tonight! How could you be bored?!?!
Scott: It's quite possible. Pardon my cynicism, but honestly, there's nothing else to talk about. Check any of the major news outlets that cover this stuff; there's nothing else to say. All of the storylines have been beaten to death.
Celtics-Lakers rivalry? Check. Kobe's legacy? Check. The legacy of the Big 3? Check. The health of KG and Bynum's (and now Perkins') knee? Check. Ray Allen's fleeting jumper? Check. The bench play of both teams? Check. Paul Pierce and Ron Artest? Check. Rondo becoming the best point guard alive? Check. (That one is total crock, by the way. If you can't make an 18 footer as a guard, you can't be the best at your position.)
Just look at Kobe and Pau; they're bored with it all too.
There's nothing new anymore, nothing exciting. No amount of analysis or posturing will change anything. Just let them play this last game already.
Devil's Advocate: But annoyance? Really?
Scott: Oh most definitely. I'm especially annoyed with these two franchises and their respective fanbases. Yes, I'm an open and proud Lakers hater. But don't let that trick you into thinking I'm a Celtics homer. Far from it; both teams have won way too many times. And because of that, their fans have become bloated, feasting on victory with unchecked gluttony. I'm sick and tired of seeing openly ignorant and mindless Facebook statuses about this series. People who clearly don't follow the sport until late May all of a sudden get a strong desire to exclaim their love for a team after every big game. Ask them cursory questions about their teams, or hell, the sport, and you'll get terrible answers in return.
Tell me, sudden NBA fans: without looking it up, who is this?
But I'm annoyed for many other reasons as well. The officiating, for instance, irks me to no end. No, this series hasn't been terribly biased one way or the other. But what it has been is straight-up awful. Too many touch fouls from the beginning have taken major players out of games all series long. But it goes deeper than that. Maybe it's just me, but the charge/blocking foul distinction has really gotten under my skin. It's honestly just a guess when it comes to that call now. Those guys are moving with such speed and force that an official doesn't have time to see the contact, find the location of the defenders feet, and ascertain if they are firmly planted to make the right call. The result? An uninformed guess.
Charge, block, or flop? Your guess is as good as mine. (Hint: the Laker got the benefit of the doubt.)
These uninformed guesses open the door for super-star treatment (If someone like Kobe gets in the lane to stop a drive? It's most definitely going the other way), make-up calls, and the like. It'll never happen, but the NBA needs to reform the foul system. Get rid of fouling out. And absolutely change the charge/block call distinction. All it does is lead to flopping and missed calls.
And don't even get me started on the arbitrariness of the new official reviewing system. Eeeesh.
Devil's Advocate: Well, this is all very depressing Scott. Is there a cure for your Summertime Blues?
Scott: First of all, great song, Devil's Advocate. And second of all, maybe. Perhaps, like a relationship on the rocks, I just need a break. At least from the playoffs. All the teams in the playoffs get so much media time that I really have reached a type of overload. I'm tired of hearing about the Cavaliers, the Suns, the Magic, the Nuggets, and definitely the Lakers and Celtics. Let's talk about the Timberwolves again. Will Kevin Love finally get some playing time? Will Al Jefferson return to form after his bad knee injury? How about their point-guard situation? Sure Jonny Flynn is good, but what about that whole Ricky Rubio debacle?
Or the 76ers? Or the Warriors? Or the Clippers? The less successful teams are interesting to talk about as well.
I want fantasy basketball to come back too. Updating rosters, checking the depth charts of every single team to get an edge, refreshing the injury page on Yahoo! Sports for updates, working my way through mock drafts--it's all awesome. It adds a whole new layer of enjoyment to what is often a long season.
Maybe I should just detox from it all; take the summer off, watch some baseball, go swimming, enjoy good BBQ, good beer, and good company.
Thankfully, this season ends tonight, no matter what. The boneheaded analysts will go quiet for a little bit, the bandwagon fans will switch to baseball and start rooting for the Red Sox, and I'll be able to take some time away and write about the aspects of the sport of basketball that I enjoy. At least I have that to look forward to, right?
Devil's Advocate: Hey Scott! ESPN just had a piece discussing LeBron's Free Agency!
Scott: Goddammit! Fine. You win, Devil's Advocate. You win.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
"Hey, you guys need one more?" part 1
ESPN Page 2's Patrick Hruby wrote a pair of great articles detailing some of the different types of ballers that lace it up and take it to the blacktop for pick-up games. You can find both of them here and here. While both articles were super excellent, I still felt they were a tad incomplete. So, like any good writer, I blatantly ripped off the idea and wrote my own piece about it. Over this week and the next I'll detail all the guys I've met in my time playing and identify their closest NBA equivalent. Hopefully, after reading this, the next time you hear someone ask, "hey, you guys need one more?" you'll know exactly what you are getting into if you let him play.
1. The-Guy-Who-Takes-Things-Waaaay-Too-Seriously
This guy treats any game of pick-up like it's a Game 7 of the NBA Finals. No smiles. No high-fives. No "hey, good shot, man." Nothing. It's all business, all the time. He tends to be quite decent; he knows how to play, how to board, and how to hit the open cutter. There are definitely worse guys to have on your squad. But, there's just one little problem: it's not Game 7 of the NBA Finals. His level of intensity goes so far above and beyond what is called for in a game of pick-up that it's almost laughable. Just don't let him see you laugh, though. He won't be afraid to get on your case about your lack of commitment to the team (a team, mind you, that didn't exist five minutes ago).
He'll mutter under his breath when you miss a shot, shake his head in disappointment when you turn it over, and jut his jaw out when he makes a big play. This guy will dive for errant balls that don't have a snowflakes chance in Hell of being in play, just so he can crash to the floor in a vain attempt to demonstrate his commitment to winning (and use it as evidence against you later for that one time you failed to box-out your man). While you may win with a dude like this, he'll get under the skin of your entire squad, making you and your teammates wish he would just leave so you guys could go back to, you know, having fun.
Closest NBA equivalent: Kobe Bryant
You're very lucky murder is illegal in California, Shannon.
2. The Jokester
While The-Guy-Who-Takes-Things-Waaaay-Too-Seriously is all about winning, this guy is just the opposite. He could give a rip who wins the game. He's only there to get some cheap laughs and pal around with the bros. Give him the ball? He dribbles like a chicken with it's head-cut off. On defense? He'll try to bear-hug, titty-twist, and tickle his man. He'll try to imitate his favorite player, not run back on defense, shoot the ball from the half-court, and practice his lame stand-up routine throughout the game.
Sad thing is, this guy isn't even that funny. The early laughs he gets before the game aren't because his stuff is good, but rather because people feel bad that he keeps trying to extract a chuckle out of the crowd. Unfortunately, all these laughs do is fuel his one-man comedy-dream. The Jokester will then continue to pursue that dream right then and there. In the middle of a game. You think he would realize that a basketball contest isn't exactly the best time to crack wise, but apparently The Jokester missed the memo.
Closest NBA equivalent: LeBron James
I hate to interrupt your fun and games, LeBron, but it's halfway through the second quarter.
3. The Over-Accessorizer
The Over-Accessorizer can be spotted a mile away. The guy dresses like a traveling advertisement for the NBA: long socks, ankle-guards, wristbands, headband (maybe two, usually on upside-down), fashionable knee braces, finger tape, shooter sleeves. The list goes on and on. He'll also always be sporting a retro jersey of a current player and the newest pair of Jordans. The ones that cost 300 dollars. The one's that he waited for in-line at Footlocker. At midnight. For three hours.
Of course, the guy sucks. Maybe he's a step slower because he's sporting fifty pounds of gear. Or maybe he's slower because he had to check himself out in the mirror on that last trip down the court. The reason for his suckage really isn't clear. The one thing that is clear? All that money spent on gear should've gone towards basketball lessons.
Closest NBA equivalent: Josh Smith
4. The Marksmen
(My city league team definitely encountered the guy that inspired this entry.)
Simply put, the Marksmen can shoot well. Exceedingly well. Give him some space to start out the game and he'll hit the open three. Next trip down the court, he'll pull-up and drain it again. Third time down, if you pick him up at the 3-point line, he'll pull up from 35 feet away and send the ball ripping through the bottom of the net. Try and guard him at 35 feet? He'll call for a pick, dribble around the screen, pull-up, and tickle the twine from long range. It's infuriating; every time he pulls up from that far away, any coach that has every coached the game tells you to let him take it. Because for most guys, that shot will go in 0 times out of 10. But for him? Oh, that's right in his range.
Thing is, this guy isn't great by any other measurement. In fact, he's pretty unspectacular. But it's because of these shortcomings that he's developed a money jumper. Shoulders squared, elbow directly under the ball, perfect flick of the wrist, swish. Every time. From anywhere. Even giving The Marksmen an inch of separation is too much. Often portly and short, this guy will smoke your entire team by hitting 6 straight long-balls that put the game away before your squad can even manage to throw together 3 buckets.
Talk about embarrassing.
Closest NBA equivalent: Ray Allen in the body of Sean May
This is about as creepy as it gets (Much thanks to Todd Zais for this bad-boy).
5. The Big Little Man
This guy is the opposite of the Little Big Man, in nearly every conceivable way. While the the Little Big Guy hurts his team by jacking up bad shots and under-utilizing his size, the Big Little Guy does just the opposite. He'll take the ball into the lost post, and, like a pro, head-fake one way, then reverse-pivot the other for an easy lay-up. His footwork down low is absolute money, and the little hooks and tear drops he sinks around defenders a good six inches taller than him is something to marvel.
And don't forget his rebounding. Somehow, someway, this guy always comes up with the board. Don't ask how. Don't ask why. Science continues to fail to explain how The Big Little Guy manages to rebound at a better clip than everyone else on the floor. Maybe it's luck? Maybe it's his speed? Anticipation? Telepathic ability? Your guess is as good as mine. Having him on your team is great because he'll always keep a possession alive. Your team could throw up brick after brick and The Big Little Guy will corral the ball off the rim, kick it back out, and let the offensive set start all over again.
His larger-than-expected size translates on defense too. He'll have no problem getting physical and bodying up guys twice his size in the low post. He'll bang down low, contest his man's baby hook, box him out, and crash that glass to get the rebound. His play is decidedly ugly, but damned effective, and it is as impressive a feat as there can be in a pick-up game. One warning, though: don't let him shoot jump-shots or try anything with finesse. His game is ugly, through and through, for both good and bad.
Closest NBA equivalent: Andre Miller
6. The Lefty
When playing defense, one of the first tenets students of the game are taught is to force your man to dribble with their off-hand. If he's a righty, force him left; if he's a lefty, force him right. It's simple; less dominant hands tend to have worse ball control, and gathering the rock on a lay-up with that other hand is a lot more difficult to execute. Since most people in the world are right-handed, the general rule of thumb is to force guys left. Simple.
The Lefty, however, will take that simple adage and burn you for it. You cut-off the right lane, but the guy takes you to the hoop with ease. Dribble, dribble, left step, right step, lay-in. No biggie--it was probably a fluke, so it won't happen again. But then he does do it again. And again. Then one time when he pulls up for three, with his left hand underneath the ball and his right guiding the rock, it dawns on you: this guy is The Lefty.
There's one in every game, usually. Maybe two. Never more than that though. But if you are the unlucky guy guarding him and don't know that? Be prepared to look like Mike Bibby on defense for a few plays until you figure it out. Of course, by that time, your teammates hate you for playing matador defense, and your team is probably down a couple buckets.
Way to go, champ.
Closest NBA equivalent: Manu Ginobli
1. The-Guy-Who-Takes-Things-Waaaay-Too-Seriously
This guy treats any game of pick-up like it's a Game 7 of the NBA Finals. No smiles. No high-fives. No "hey, good shot, man." Nothing. It's all business, all the time. He tends to be quite decent; he knows how to play, how to board, and how to hit the open cutter. There are definitely worse guys to have on your squad. But, there's just one little problem: it's not Game 7 of the NBA Finals. His level of intensity goes so far above and beyond what is called for in a game of pick-up that it's almost laughable. Just don't let him see you laugh, though. He won't be afraid to get on your case about your lack of commitment to the team (a team, mind you, that didn't exist five minutes ago).
He'll mutter under his breath when you miss a shot, shake his head in disappointment when you turn it over, and jut his jaw out when he makes a big play. This guy will dive for errant balls that don't have a snowflakes chance in Hell of being in play, just so he can crash to the floor in a vain attempt to demonstrate his commitment to winning (and use it as evidence against you later for that one time you failed to box-out your man). While you may win with a dude like this, he'll get under the skin of your entire squad, making you and your teammates wish he would just leave so you guys could go back to, you know, having fun.
Closest NBA equivalent: Kobe Bryant
You're very lucky murder is illegal in California, Shannon.2. The Jokester
While The-Guy-Who-Takes-Things-Waaaay-Too-Seriously is all about winning, this guy is just the opposite. He could give a rip who wins the game. He's only there to get some cheap laughs and pal around with the bros. Give him the ball? He dribbles like a chicken with it's head-cut off. On defense? He'll try to bear-hug, titty-twist, and tickle his man. He'll try to imitate his favorite player, not run back on defense, shoot the ball from the half-court, and practice his lame stand-up routine throughout the game.
Sad thing is, this guy isn't even that funny. The early laughs he gets before the game aren't because his stuff is good, but rather because people feel bad that he keeps trying to extract a chuckle out of the crowd. Unfortunately, all these laughs do is fuel his one-man comedy-dream. The Jokester will then continue to pursue that dream right then and there. In the middle of a game. You think he would realize that a basketball contest isn't exactly the best time to crack wise, but apparently The Jokester missed the memo.
Closest NBA equivalent: LeBron James
I hate to interrupt your fun and games, LeBron, but it's halfway through the second quarter.3. The Over-Accessorizer
The Over-Accessorizer can be spotted a mile away. The guy dresses like a traveling advertisement for the NBA: long socks, ankle-guards, wristbands, headband (maybe two, usually on upside-down), fashionable knee braces, finger tape, shooter sleeves. The list goes on and on. He'll also always be sporting a retro jersey of a current player and the newest pair of Jordans. The ones that cost 300 dollars. The one's that he waited for in-line at Footlocker. At midnight. For three hours.
Of course, the guy sucks. Maybe he's a step slower because he's sporting fifty pounds of gear. Or maybe he's slower because he had to check himself out in the mirror on that last trip down the court. The reason for his suckage really isn't clear. The one thing that is clear? All that money spent on gear should've gone towards basketball lessons.
Closest NBA equivalent: Josh Smith
I swear, Josh Smith is under there somewhere.
4. The Marksmen
(My city league team definitely encountered the guy that inspired this entry.)
Simply put, the Marksmen can shoot well. Exceedingly well. Give him some space to start out the game and he'll hit the open three. Next trip down the court, he'll pull-up and drain it again. Third time down, if you pick him up at the 3-point line, he'll pull up from 35 feet away and send the ball ripping through the bottom of the net. Try and guard him at 35 feet? He'll call for a pick, dribble around the screen, pull-up, and tickle the twine from long range. It's infuriating; every time he pulls up from that far away, any coach that has every coached the game tells you to let him take it. Because for most guys, that shot will go in 0 times out of 10. But for him? Oh, that's right in his range.
Thing is, this guy isn't great by any other measurement. In fact, he's pretty unspectacular. But it's because of these shortcomings that he's developed a money jumper. Shoulders squared, elbow directly under the ball, perfect flick of the wrist, swish. Every time. From anywhere. Even giving The Marksmen an inch of separation is too much. Often portly and short, this guy will smoke your entire team by hitting 6 straight long-balls that put the game away before your squad can even manage to throw together 3 buckets.
Talk about embarrassing.
Closest NBA equivalent: Ray Allen in the body of Sean May
This is about as creepy as it gets (Much thanks to Todd Zais for this bad-boy).5. The Big Little Man
This guy is the opposite of the Little Big Man, in nearly every conceivable way. While the the Little Big Guy hurts his team by jacking up bad shots and under-utilizing his size, the Big Little Guy does just the opposite. He'll take the ball into the lost post, and, like a pro, head-fake one way, then reverse-pivot the other for an easy lay-up. His footwork down low is absolute money, and the little hooks and tear drops he sinks around defenders a good six inches taller than him is something to marvel.
And don't forget his rebounding. Somehow, someway, this guy always comes up with the board. Don't ask how. Don't ask why. Science continues to fail to explain how The Big Little Guy manages to rebound at a better clip than everyone else on the floor. Maybe it's luck? Maybe it's his speed? Anticipation? Telepathic ability? Your guess is as good as mine. Having him on your team is great because he'll always keep a possession alive. Your team could throw up brick after brick and The Big Little Guy will corral the ball off the rim, kick it back out, and let the offensive set start all over again.
His larger-than-expected size translates on defense too. He'll have no problem getting physical and bodying up guys twice his size in the low post. He'll bang down low, contest his man's baby hook, box him out, and crash that glass to get the rebound. His play is decidedly ugly, but damned effective, and it is as impressive a feat as there can be in a pick-up game. One warning, though: don't let him shoot jump-shots or try anything with finesse. His game is ugly, through and through, for both good and bad.
Closest NBA equivalent: Andre Miller
Fun fact: This bucket was only worth 1 point. It's all part of the NBA's "half-basket bonanza" promotion, a new campaign designed to give teams in the East a chance.
When playing defense, one of the first tenets students of the game are taught is to force your man to dribble with their off-hand. If he's a righty, force him left; if he's a lefty, force him right. It's simple; less dominant hands tend to have worse ball control, and gathering the rock on a lay-up with that other hand is a lot more difficult to execute. Since most people in the world are right-handed, the general rule of thumb is to force guys left. Simple.
The Lefty, however, will take that simple adage and burn you for it. You cut-off the right lane, but the guy takes you to the hoop with ease. Dribble, dribble, left step, right step, lay-in. No biggie--it was probably a fluke, so it won't happen again. But then he does do it again. And again. Then one time when he pulls up for three, with his left hand underneath the ball and his right guiding the rock, it dawns on you: this guy is The Lefty.
There's one in every game, usually. Maybe two. Never more than that though. But if you are the unlucky guy guarding him and don't know that? Be prepared to look like Mike Bibby on defense for a few plays until you figure it out. Of course, by that time, your teammates hate you for playing matador defense, and your team is probably down a couple buckets.
Way to go, champ.
Closest NBA equivalent: Manu Ginobli
Your dirty little secret's out of the bag now, bucko.
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