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.

"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

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.

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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."

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..."

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.