Sorry it’s been so long since you’ve heard from me (or in some cases, you’re welcome!), but I’ve been in the process of moving. When the supposedly edgy, punk-y, and cheap East Village is renting studios at $1,800 a month that are smaller than my old Army barracks room, that's when it’s time to move to…Brooklyn! And because I knew very little about the borough other than to avoid any neighborhoods shouted-out in a Jay-Z song, there’s been moderate-to-very-little sleep 'til Brooklyn while we’ve searched for a place, preferably with at least one bedroom.
So we moved last week, and in a touching ceremony that really made my wife and I feel like family, our historic and beautiful old neighborhood promptly welcomed us with an ancient ritual: burglarizing my car. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this traditional native custom, it involves showering the sidewalk with tiny, intricately-cut shards of your car’s passenger-side window, followed by the delicate removal of your radio, and finally the spreading of your glove compartment’s contents to complete the coronation. In certain cases for those with a prized vehicle, the natives will also open your trunk as if it were a flower in bloom and set free whatever is inside; unfortunately, our 2002 Corolla (with manual roll-down windows) didn’t qualify for this treatment, but it was a special event nonetheless.
Anyway, before I make you all jealous, let’s get to this draft. “With the #9 and #20 picks in the 2008 NBA Draft, the Charlotte Bobcats select…a bunch of really angry fans no matter who they pick.” I thought long and hard about this draft, and early yesterday morning I came to the following two conclusions: 1) every one of these picks after the first two (and maybe even the first one) has at least one serious flaw, either in general or with the Bobcats in particular; 2) it’s the 9th and 20th picks, so there’s no real point in fretting about it.
If you concede that our two most pressing needs are a point guard and a rebounding center (and everyone except possibly the team itself has conceded this, considering they were also the same two needs before last year’s draft), then you knew going into this thing that we weren’t going to get a very satisfying pick either way, especially with our higher pick. The options at center were discouraging, as the only lottery-worthy 5 was Brook Lopez, who has a questionable attitude about anything other than Disney characters and—oh yeah, can’t rebound. The other possible center draft candidate was Kevin Love, whose physical fitness seems to fluctuate like Oprah’s and who seems more suited for the 4-spot, where Emeka Okafor is calling home, at least for now.
As for the 1, after Derrick Rose, four of the top five guards (OJ Mayo, Russell Westbrook, Jerryd Bayless, and Eric Gordon) were not even true point guards. This was worrisome, because last year we didn’t even know what to do when we DID have a true point guard: Raymond Felton played virtually the whole year at the 2-spot. The last thing we need is more “trans-guard” ambiguity. Thus, the fifth of the bunch and our eventual pick, DJ Augustin, was a serviceable choice.
Augustin’s size and defense are a concern, but even more alarming were the reports that our incumbent guard, Raymond Felton, is suddenly fighting for his job. Chad Ford even calls Augustin an “upgrade” over Felton!? Really? Size-wise, Augustin is barely an upgrade over David Stern! DJ is one of the few draftees Stern didn’t have to squint up at like he’s reading a billboard advertisement for Gossip Girl and trying to figure out what “OMFG” means. Everyone is asking if the Augustin selection (and some guy named Kyle Weaver with the 38th pick) means we’re now shopping Felton, but what I’m really curious is Earl Boykins. We can’t possibly be retaining Earl with Augustin now, are we? How’s that team practice going to look? For the 5-on-5 scrimmages it’s going to be Arnold Drummond covering Webster.
A clear-cut strategy of “guard-first/big man-second” was illuminated earlier in the day when the Cats obtained the rights to the #20 pick from the Nuggets, meaning they could use it to take from the pool of late-round 7-footers who are generally undeveloped and largely indistinguishable. Except…we STILL managed to throw a curveball-zinger in there by selecting France’s Alexis Ajinca over the more logical choice of Ohio State’s Kosta Koufos. Coach Larry Brown (sort of) explained the rationale behind the pick to the ESPN crew later by saying he “fell in love” with Alexis in a private workout. Besides being unintentionally funny and vaguely homoerotic, I’m not sure if this explanation did much for me. Exactly how bad was Koufos at Ohio State that he warranted a snub from a 5-point scoring Frenchman? Unless points in French convert to American points like Euros to dollars, this move seems a little batty.
And say what you will about Koufos, at least he was guaranteed to show up at training camp. Going that low in the draft puts Ajinca at risk to stay in Europe—let’s hope LB’s love for AA is similar to Andie MacDowell’s love for Gerard Depardieu in Green Card and convinces the Frenchman to come to the States permanently. But even if he does, are we now going to have a bench squad of Ryan Hollins, Jermareo Davidson, and Ajinca? That’s three 7-footers who can’t rebound, and who all shoot/peg the ball exactly like Kevin Garnett’s and-one just before half-time of Game 6, except our guys do it even if they’re wide open (and they miss). Finally, someone better make sure those three, Boykins, and Augustin are distributed evenly along the pine, otherwise we’re going to have a see-saw going.
But for everyone who's agonizing about what we did last night, just remember, all of this muck and angst is mollifiable if you go back to my Conclusion #2, which is, hey, it’s the ninth and twentieth picks. Forget about the 20th for a second, do you know who the last five ninth-overall picks have been? Joakim Noah, Patrick O’Bryant, Ike Diogu, Andre Iguodala, and Mike Sweetney. With the exception of Andre, none of these guys is destined to make much of an impact, so fretting over these picks is like fretting over which Combo Meal to get at McDonald’s: it’s cheap and it’s probably going to be mediocre no matter what you take, so just pick something and let’s go. And who knows, if either Augustin or Ajinca can do anything other than blow out an ACL, think of it as that rare Happy Meal with the cool toy.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Bobcats Thoughts, 6/12
One of the many tragic elements of prolific author David Halberstam’s death last year is that right now would have been the perfect time for him to write another basketball book. Halberstam’s first take on hoops, the vaunted The Breaks of the Game, profiled the nascent League in the throes of its 1970s growing pains. In 1998’s Playing For Keeps, Halberstam analyzed in deft detail the Jordan-era League that was cresting in popularity yet already wary of the void soon to come with 23’s retirement. This year—an even decade later, with the NBA enjoying its first real post-Jordan renaissance, fueled by a new generation of stars and punctuated by a classic Celtics-Lakers Finals match-up—is screaming for a Halberstamian encapsulation to complete the trilogy. Too bad the legend can no longer provide one for us.
If by chance you haven’t read either of his two NBA books, I cannot recommend them highly enough. The Breaks of the Game is particularly edifying, because the reader has the chance to examine all of the ways the game has and hasn’t changed in 30-odd years. I found it fascinating how obsessed all of the players were with three things back then: their contracts, their race, and their knees. I'm barely exaggerating; regardless of the player, he felt he was signed to a contract that was too long, too cheap, or—on the flip-side—too burdensome. If the player was black, he almost always felt underpaid, unappreciated, and alienated, while if he was white, he was anxious to live down the rumors that he was overpaid or part of a “quota”-conspiracy, plus he was sensitive to stereotypes of being un-athletic. But above all—above the anguish surrounding contractual and racial issues—was the persistent fear of health problems, especially regarding knees. Every player was either suffering from knee injuries, getting over them, or worried about them, and therefore his career was constantly teetering on the brink. As a result of all this anguish, and for the turmoil in the front office over television rights and mounting expenses, 70s basketball was a grim landscape indeed. And we learn this through Halberstam, whose expert reporting of the NBA in its dramatic, Darwinian early stages, makes The Breaks of the Game an enduring classic.
(Side note: this third obsession with knees also revealed a profound shortsightedness of the era. For all of the paranoia, nobody (including Halberstam) seemed able to pinpoint the root cause of the pervasive knee injuries, a cause that is painfully obvious decades later: the feeble sneakers back then, which were woefully inadequate for the high-impact jumping that the game entails. Instead, players attempted to build leg strength through faddish exercises (there seemed to be a lot of “hitting the Nautilus,” which I must admit to not fully understanding—did the “Nautilus” start out as just one type of machine, rather than an entire brand of fitness equipment? If so, what was it—a stationary bike?), tried to ration out the amount of jumping they did, altered their diets, sought out specific surgeons, etc. It was kind of macabre, really—sort of like reading one of those first-person accounts of life in a frontier village in the days before it was understood that mosquitoes spread malaria, wherein the author concludes that all of the premature "fever and ague" deaths were a fact of life and probably attributable to “evil spirits.”)
If he were still here and composing a third book, I wonder whom Halberstam would have chosen as his muse? Each of his books has had a team or player serve as the vehicle for Halberstam to drive his narrative of the League as a whole. The Breaks of the Game used the 1980 Portland Trail Blazers as the conduit, while MJ himself was the apotheosis of 1990s NBA athleticism and commercial success in Playing For Keeps. This year, Halberstam would have had a few options. LeBron James probably best represents the new wave of NBA superstars, not just for his dominance on the court, but also for the influence he has on owners and coaches, and of course his image proliferation globally and in cyberspace (both of which are characteristic of the League as a whole). Kobe Bryant also would have been an excellent choice, for Halberstam could have used him as the symbolic bridge between “old” and “new,” plus The Mamba has the added advantages of being a) in the Finals, and b) one of the most compelling figures in all of sports. A third candidate could have been Commissioner Stern, who—for better or worse—has been the architect of the League’s past and present status, the erudite pilot at the helm of its fits and starts and triumphs and shortcomings for the past 25 or so years. Either way, Halberstam would have had a wealth of options.
Of course, these choices wouldn’t be exclusionary, for Halberstam’s books always thoroughly encompassed the entire landscape of the League. The players, the owners, the agents, the media, the style of play—Halberstam illuminated all of the NBA’s branches and tentacles. Halberstam wasn’t so much a genius as he was a consummate investigator and thoughtful sociologist. I grasped his true greatness about 2/3 of the way through The Breaks of the Game. There was a passage in which Halberstam was reflecting on the delicate balance between individual greatness and team success in the NBA, and how they often subtract from each other, and how this is unique compared to other sports, when it suddenly occurred to me: every single significant thought I’ve ever had about the NBA—its cultural significance, its comparative advantages and disadvantages with other sports—has already been taken by Halberstam. Not only that, he’d done it all some 30 years ago! I found this to be simultaneously humbling, daunting, and amazing. Halberstam’s ability to draw conclusions through research, inquiry, and critical exploration were his unsurpassed gifts.
Random epilogue: Officiating, officiating, officiating! The refs are ruining everything! After Game 2 in Boston, everywhere you turn, people are pissed that the refs are making bad calls, or too many calls, or not enough calls. Then Tim D. poured more gas on the fire. Some people even go so far as to say officials are holding back the sport as a whole.
Whatever.
Just remember all of this hoopla when the NFL season roles around again, and after each week there’s a firestorm about a bad pass interference call, or a QB who should have been ruled “in the grasp,” or an impossible-to-verify ruling about a receiver being pushed out (or not). Wait a second, you don’t even need to wait that long: how about the lack of instant replay in MLB screwing up outs, foul balls, even home runs—home runs! At least our officials can accurately determine when someone scores. And don’t get me started on the strike zone, which has shrunk to the size of Manu Ginobli’s bald spot. The NBA does not “suffer” from “subjective” calls any more than any other sport.
If by chance you haven’t read either of his two NBA books, I cannot recommend them highly enough. The Breaks of the Game is particularly edifying, because the reader has the chance to examine all of the ways the game has and hasn’t changed in 30-odd years. I found it fascinating how obsessed all of the players were with three things back then: their contracts, their race, and their knees. I'm barely exaggerating; regardless of the player, he felt he was signed to a contract that was too long, too cheap, or—on the flip-side—too burdensome. If the player was black, he almost always felt underpaid, unappreciated, and alienated, while if he was white, he was anxious to live down the rumors that he was overpaid or part of a “quota”-conspiracy, plus he was sensitive to stereotypes of being un-athletic. But above all—above the anguish surrounding contractual and racial issues—was the persistent fear of health problems, especially regarding knees. Every player was either suffering from knee injuries, getting over them, or worried about them, and therefore his career was constantly teetering on the brink. As a result of all this anguish, and for the turmoil in the front office over television rights and mounting expenses, 70s basketball was a grim landscape indeed. And we learn this through Halberstam, whose expert reporting of the NBA in its dramatic, Darwinian early stages, makes The Breaks of the Game an enduring classic.
(Side note: this third obsession with knees also revealed a profound shortsightedness of the era. For all of the paranoia, nobody (including Halberstam) seemed able to pinpoint the root cause of the pervasive knee injuries, a cause that is painfully obvious decades later: the feeble sneakers back then, which were woefully inadequate for the high-impact jumping that the game entails. Instead, players attempted to build leg strength through faddish exercises (there seemed to be a lot of “hitting the Nautilus,” which I must admit to not fully understanding—did the “Nautilus” start out as just one type of machine, rather than an entire brand of fitness equipment? If so, what was it—a stationary bike?), tried to ration out the amount of jumping they did, altered their diets, sought out specific surgeons, etc. It was kind of macabre, really—sort of like reading one of those first-person accounts of life in a frontier village in the days before it was understood that mosquitoes spread malaria, wherein the author concludes that all of the premature "fever and ague" deaths were a fact of life and probably attributable to “evil spirits.”)
If he were still here and composing a third book, I wonder whom Halberstam would have chosen as his muse? Each of his books has had a team or player serve as the vehicle for Halberstam to drive his narrative of the League as a whole. The Breaks of the Game used the 1980 Portland Trail Blazers as the conduit, while MJ himself was the apotheosis of 1990s NBA athleticism and commercial success in Playing For Keeps. This year, Halberstam would have had a few options. LeBron James probably best represents the new wave of NBA superstars, not just for his dominance on the court, but also for the influence he has on owners and coaches, and of course his image proliferation globally and in cyberspace (both of which are characteristic of the League as a whole). Kobe Bryant also would have been an excellent choice, for Halberstam could have used him as the symbolic bridge between “old” and “new,” plus The Mamba has the added advantages of being a) in the Finals, and b) one of the most compelling figures in all of sports. A third candidate could have been Commissioner Stern, who—for better or worse—has been the architect of the League’s past and present status, the erudite pilot at the helm of its fits and starts and triumphs and shortcomings for the past 25 or so years. Either way, Halberstam would have had a wealth of options.
Of course, these choices wouldn’t be exclusionary, for Halberstam’s books always thoroughly encompassed the entire landscape of the League. The players, the owners, the agents, the media, the style of play—Halberstam illuminated all of the NBA’s branches and tentacles. Halberstam wasn’t so much a genius as he was a consummate investigator and thoughtful sociologist. I grasped his true greatness about 2/3 of the way through The Breaks of the Game. There was a passage in which Halberstam was reflecting on the delicate balance between individual greatness and team success in the NBA, and how they often subtract from each other, and how this is unique compared to other sports, when it suddenly occurred to me: every single significant thought I’ve ever had about the NBA—its cultural significance, its comparative advantages and disadvantages with other sports—has already been taken by Halberstam. Not only that, he’d done it all some 30 years ago! I found this to be simultaneously humbling, daunting, and amazing. Halberstam’s ability to draw conclusions through research, inquiry, and critical exploration were his unsurpassed gifts.
Random epilogue: Officiating, officiating, officiating! The refs are ruining everything! After Game 2 in Boston, everywhere you turn, people are pissed that the refs are making bad calls, or too many calls, or not enough calls. Then Tim D. poured more gas on the fire. Some people even go so far as to say officials are holding back the sport as a whole.
Whatever.
Just remember all of this hoopla when the NFL season roles around again, and after each week there’s a firestorm about a bad pass interference call, or a QB who should have been ruled “in the grasp,” or an impossible-to-verify ruling about a receiver being pushed out (or not). Wait a second, you don’t even need to wait that long: how about the lack of instant replay in MLB screwing up outs, foul balls, even home runs—home runs! At least our officials can accurately determine when someone scores. And don’t get me started on the strike zone, which has shrunk to the size of Manu Ginobli’s bald spot. The NBA does not “suffer” from “subjective” calls any more than any other sport.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Bobcats Thoughts, 6/5
Gee, if only Bob Johnson was as loyal to his own basketball team as he seems to be to the Clinton Campaign. According to the Observer, Johnson’s pressuring Congressman Jim Clyburn and the Congressional Black Caucus to back Hillary Clinton to be Barack Obama’s Veep. That’s pretty ballsy considering just a few months ago Johnson was openly lampooning Obama as a worthless drug addict. Now he honestly expects favors from Obama? This is like me asking Tim Duncan for a million bucks. Wait, sorry, Johnson’s not pressuring Clyburn; he’s "urging and encouraging." Whatever, BJ. I wonder if Johnson considers his bladder to be “pressuring” him or “urging and encouraging” him to take a pee after he downs a bottle of Chardonnay?
I don’t know what Billary’s got on old Bob, but I guess we should be happy that—unlike the rest of Hillary’s loony apparatchiks—Johnson’s at least accepting the fact that she lost. I see that she’s sort of (kind of, through third parties, etc.) conceded the election now (how benevolent of her), but Clinton’s refusal to admit defeat immediately after Obama secured the delegates is, is…spectacular, quite frankly. Imagine if sports teams did this? I mean, for all intents and purposes, the delegate count is to a primary election what the scoreboard is to a basketball game—it’s not subjective; whoever has the most, wins. So what if the Spurs—instead of just shaking Kobe & Company’s hands at the end of Game 6 and going quietly into the off-season—decided instead that they'd “think about their options and consult with their fans” and get back to everyone in a few days...And then Greg Popovich and Tony Parker reappeared a few days later, held a press conference, and “acknowledged” that LA did win, but only on the condition that, say, the Spurs get the Lakers’ draft pick next year. This is basically what Hillary did--"I'll only say you won if you consider me for VP and/or and/or a key cabinet member and/or a Supreme Court Justice." Couple this with her brazen claim to have won the “popular vote” (rhetorical fertilizer of the highest grade), AND the fact that practically no one’s calling her on anything, and I’m downright awestruck. At some point, I actually have to admire her.
Anyway, because I can’t bring myself to get too worked up over whoever ends up being our 9th round pick (Brook Lopez! Anthony Randolph! Pinch me!), I’m calling out someone else: The New York Times’ William C. Rhoden. For those of you who might not follow the Times (which, to the ultra-self-important Times, is utterly inconceivable), Rhoden is one of their regular sports columnist who focus primarily on racial issues. You may remember that he wrote a controversial book a few years ago with the subtle, bland title of Forty Million Dollar Slaves. I actually gave it a mixed review and thought that although he illuminates some worthy concerns, a lot of his arguments were questionable and supported by some pretty flimsy evidence (for instance, he had a problem with the way big-time colleges isolate black athletes and strip them of their cultural identity, yet he relied too heavily on a Sports Illustrated article from the late 60s to back up his claims--I'm pretty sure things have improved at least slightly since then).
So remember a few weeks ago when New York Mets manager Willie Randolph made some comments about being judged unfairly because he’s black? This was right in Rhoden's wheelhouse. Anytime something like this happens, you can bet that Rhoden’s going to follow up with a very sober piece on how far we still have to go in America before we’ve completely put racism behind us and truly do value each other as equals. Rhoden’s other recurring tendency, by the way, is to compliment whoever the athlete/coach is who made these inflammatory comments for bravely bringing the problem to light. This can actually be sort of comical at times, because Rhoden tends to do this no matter how non-sensical and/or farfetched the comments are; for instance, he was a huge believer in Larry Johnson’s profanity-laced tirade with the Knicks back in 1999 (in fact, it was the “inspiration” behind the Forty Million Dollar Slaves title). For the most part, I’m actually with Rhoden—I prefer athletes and coaches who speak their minds, and I believe that racism still plays a problematically large role in society.
But here’s where I think Rhoden is dead wrong. In that same follow-up article on Randolph, in which he predictably praised Willie for speaking out on racism and chastised the New York media for their subsequent backlash, he switched gears and began discussing what he believed to be a “quota system” in modern-day sports. Specifically, he referred to the globalization of the NBA over the past few years as a “code word for more white players on rosters.” I’m sorry, but if that’s what Rhoden thinks is the primary motivation behind expanding the League, he’s employing some pretty slanderous reductionism. And I think Ronny Turiaf, Tony Parker, Leandro Barbosa, Luol Deng (sense the pattern here?), and plenty of other foreign stars would agree with me. Whatever you think of David Stern, he’s a bottom-line guy; for better or worse, the color he focuses on more than anything else is green. If anything, “globalization” is code for “2 billion Yao Ming jerseys sold in China.”
I appreciate Rhoden for speaking up on these matters, just as he extends his thanks to the athletes whenever they do so. But Rhoden can be hard to support when he expresses hostility to further integration (he did this repeatedly in his book also)—in sports and in society as a whole. Call me naïve, but for all of its faults and missteps, I still believe in the benefits of integration, the melting pot, and everything else they taught me on Sesame Street. After all, it’s integration that allows me to spend the first two paragraphs ripping the moves of our team’s black owner just as if he were any other white, distant, disinterested, billionaire owner. And on that note, you’re doing great B-Jo, now pick us a winner at #9—Russell Westbrook! DJ Augustin! Kevin Love! I can’t wait!
I don’t know what Billary’s got on old Bob, but I guess we should be happy that—unlike the rest of Hillary’s loony apparatchiks—Johnson’s at least accepting the fact that she lost. I see that she’s sort of (kind of, through third parties, etc.) conceded the election now (how benevolent of her), but Clinton’s refusal to admit defeat immediately after Obama secured the delegates is, is…spectacular, quite frankly. Imagine if sports teams did this? I mean, for all intents and purposes, the delegate count is to a primary election what the scoreboard is to a basketball game—it’s not subjective; whoever has the most, wins. So what if the Spurs—instead of just shaking Kobe & Company’s hands at the end of Game 6 and going quietly into the off-season—decided instead that they'd “think about their options and consult with their fans” and get back to everyone in a few days...And then Greg Popovich and Tony Parker reappeared a few days later, held a press conference, and “acknowledged” that LA did win, but only on the condition that, say, the Spurs get the Lakers’ draft pick next year. This is basically what Hillary did--"I'll only say you won if you consider me for VP and/or and/or a key cabinet member and/or a Supreme Court Justice." Couple this with her brazen claim to have won the “popular vote” (rhetorical fertilizer of the highest grade), AND the fact that practically no one’s calling her on anything, and I’m downright awestruck. At some point, I actually have to admire her.
Anyway, because I can’t bring myself to get too worked up over whoever ends up being our 9th round pick (Brook Lopez! Anthony Randolph! Pinch me!), I’m calling out someone else: The New York Times’ William C. Rhoden. For those of you who might not follow the Times (which, to the ultra-self-important Times, is utterly inconceivable), Rhoden is one of their regular sports columnist who focus primarily on racial issues. You may remember that he wrote a controversial book a few years ago with the subtle, bland title of Forty Million Dollar Slaves. I actually gave it a mixed review and thought that although he illuminates some worthy concerns, a lot of his arguments were questionable and supported by some pretty flimsy evidence (for instance, he had a problem with the way big-time colleges isolate black athletes and strip them of their cultural identity, yet he relied too heavily on a Sports Illustrated article from the late 60s to back up his claims--I'm pretty sure things have improved at least slightly since then).
So remember a few weeks ago when New York Mets manager Willie Randolph made some comments about being judged unfairly because he’s black? This was right in Rhoden's wheelhouse. Anytime something like this happens, you can bet that Rhoden’s going to follow up with a very sober piece on how far we still have to go in America before we’ve completely put racism behind us and truly do value each other as equals. Rhoden’s other recurring tendency, by the way, is to compliment whoever the athlete/coach is who made these inflammatory comments for bravely bringing the problem to light. This can actually be sort of comical at times, because Rhoden tends to do this no matter how non-sensical and/or farfetched the comments are; for instance, he was a huge believer in Larry Johnson’s profanity-laced tirade with the Knicks back in 1999 (in fact, it was the “inspiration” behind the Forty Million Dollar Slaves title). For the most part, I’m actually with Rhoden—I prefer athletes and coaches who speak their minds, and I believe that racism still plays a problematically large role in society.
But here’s where I think Rhoden is dead wrong. In that same follow-up article on Randolph, in which he predictably praised Willie for speaking out on racism and chastised the New York media for their subsequent backlash, he switched gears and began discussing what he believed to be a “quota system” in modern-day sports. Specifically, he referred to the globalization of the NBA over the past few years as a “code word for more white players on rosters.” I’m sorry, but if that’s what Rhoden thinks is the primary motivation behind expanding the League, he’s employing some pretty slanderous reductionism. And I think Ronny Turiaf, Tony Parker, Leandro Barbosa, Luol Deng (sense the pattern here?), and plenty of other foreign stars would agree with me. Whatever you think of David Stern, he’s a bottom-line guy; for better or worse, the color he focuses on more than anything else is green. If anything, “globalization” is code for “2 billion Yao Ming jerseys sold in China.”
I appreciate Rhoden for speaking up on these matters, just as he extends his thanks to the athletes whenever they do so. But Rhoden can be hard to support when he expresses hostility to further integration (he did this repeatedly in his book also)—in sports and in society as a whole. Call me naïve, but for all of its faults and missteps, I still believe in the benefits of integration, the melting pot, and everything else they taught me on Sesame Street. After all, it’s integration that allows me to spend the first two paragraphs ripping the moves of our team’s black owner just as if he were any other white, distant, disinterested, billionaire owner. And on that note, you’re doing great B-Jo, now pick us a winner at #9—Russell Westbrook! DJ Augustin! Kevin Love! I can’t wait!
Friday, May 30, 2008
Bobcats Thoughts, 5/30
Since we’re in the college acceptance season, let’s do a sentence completion exercise…for fun! Here goes: the Celtics are to the NBA what violence was to The Sopranos. Think about it: when the Celtics are up, everyone’s impression of the NBA is up. And when the Celtics are down, the NBA is seen as having a “down” year. Similarly, anytime there was a particularly bloody stretch on The Sopranos, it was universally regarded as a great show and generated water-cooler talk. But whenever the shooting stopped for long stretches and Tony did mundane, non-violent things (like spend multiple episodes in a coma), loyal viewers grew frustrated and casual fans turned away.
To understand the Celtics’ impact, simply compare this season and last season. Ostensibly, both had several common features: both had heated MVP races culminating in first-time winners (Dirk & Kobe), both had solid if unspectacular Rookies of the Year (Roy and Durant), both had highly competitive Western Conference Playoff races (5 50+ win teams last year, 8 this year), and both had teams blatantly tanking for purposes of draft positioning (Celtics & Bucks last year, Heat & Grizzlies this year).
The differences between 06-07 and 07-08, as far as I can tell, are pretty minor. Definitely this year had more blockbuster trades (and the impact was magnified because two of them involved...Boston!), but last year did see Iverson getting shipped off to Denver. Last year was marred by the Nuggets-Knicks “brawl” (or “minor altercation,” as it was known to us non-ignorant NBA fans) and a sketchy All-Star Game. This year also had the "feel-good story" of the New Orleans Hornets, but I’d argue that Golden State’s finish last year was—if not in the neighborhood—at least a suburb of comparability. In both years, the playoffs were a mixed bag.
But the biggest difference between this year and last year is the Celtics. It’s probably because they bring a large, disproportionately vocal fan base, full of old-time (Bob Ryan) and younger (Bill Simmons) tastemakers alike. Thus, their concerns end up being everyone’s concerns. For instance, when the team tanked last year, all of a sudden the league as a whole had a problem with tanking. This year? Tanking was no big deal, even though it was—if anything—more blatant (two words: "Patrick Riley").
So here’s the interesting part. The final season of The Sopranos drew more fans than ever, and a big part of it had to do with the escalating body count. But the last episode left roughly half the audience alienated, the general complaint being that it lacked an “ending.” I firmly believe that by “ending,” most people meant “some sort of bloody shootout, preferably involving Tony dying in a pinwheeling spray of blood and diner food.” In other words, it was a great last season until the end, when no violence = fan frustration.
Meanwhile, this year’s NBA has seen the Celtics rise to the best record, hence viewership and casual interest have correspondingly escalated, and the season has been universally heralded as one of the best in recent memory. But how will it end? The “dream match-up,” of course, is the Celtics-Lakers, while anything else is going to be like watching Meadow spend 5 minutes parking a car.
Full disclosure: I’m a diehard loyalist of both the NBA and The Sopranos. I’ve never not loved the NBA, even when it’s supposedly going through a “down” year. For example, I was one of a handful of people in the country absolutely mesmerized by the virtuoso shooting prowess of Chris Gatling in 1995. Similarly, I have and will continue to defend every Sopranos episode ever, including the final one (to all those who complained about the last episode, I ask you this: what more did you deranged sickos want? Phil Leotardo got his head run over by a car, for goodness’ sake, was that not enough? And just who precisely was supposed to kill Tony at the end?—he made his peace with everyone, including the Feds. You all are depraved.) So I’ll be happy either way, whether the Celtics make it or not. I enjoy the Spurs, and it’s not like the Pistons and Lakers have no history of their own.
Full disclosure #2: Before I get a bunch of hate-mail about how stupid/pointless this article is, I was on a conference call again. I'm telling you, stay away from those things. Only once the calls are done...that I feel like dying, I feel like dying.
Random epilogue: speaking of violence, if you’re ever bored, I’ve got a fun activity for you to try at home: watch a really violent movie with Closed-Captioning on. This past weekend, I DVR’d the utterly degenerate and quasi-fascist film 300, but because my wife was trying to work in the other room, all the screaming and axe-on-flesh noises were distracting her. So I turned the sound down and enabled the Closed-Captioning function, and the results were downright comical. In fact, I couldn’t resist copying down one of the scenes word-for-word. Looking over it, it’s hard to say if this is the dialogue from a movie or the minutes from the President’s latest Cabinet meeting. Check it out:
(All grunting)
(Grunts)
(Distorted grunts and yells)
(Grunting)
(Growling)
(Growling)
(Grunts)
“Father!
(Growling)
(Grunts)
(Breathing heavily)
(Growling)
(Snarls)
(Heavy, thudding footsteps, growling)
(Grunts)
(Roars)
“My king!”
(Growling softly)
(Breathing heavily)
(Sharp tinging)
(Grunts)
(Growling fiercely)
(Growling)
(Thud)
“Arcadians, now!”
“Go Show the Spartans what we can do!”
“Go!”
NARRRATOR: “They shout and curse, stabbing wildly, more brawlers than warriors. They make a wondrous mess of things. Brave amateurs, they do their part.”
To understand the Celtics’ impact, simply compare this season and last season. Ostensibly, both had several common features: both had heated MVP races culminating in first-time winners (Dirk & Kobe), both had solid if unspectacular Rookies of the Year (Roy and Durant), both had highly competitive Western Conference Playoff races (5 50+ win teams last year, 8 this year), and both had teams blatantly tanking for purposes of draft positioning (Celtics & Bucks last year, Heat & Grizzlies this year).
The differences between 06-07 and 07-08, as far as I can tell, are pretty minor. Definitely this year had more blockbuster trades (and the impact was magnified because two of them involved...Boston!), but last year did see Iverson getting shipped off to Denver. Last year was marred by the Nuggets-Knicks “brawl” (or “minor altercation,” as it was known to us non-ignorant NBA fans) and a sketchy All-Star Game. This year also had the "feel-good story" of the New Orleans Hornets, but I’d argue that Golden State’s finish last year was—if not in the neighborhood—at least a suburb of comparability. In both years, the playoffs were a mixed bag.
But the biggest difference between this year and last year is the Celtics. It’s probably because they bring a large, disproportionately vocal fan base, full of old-time (Bob Ryan) and younger (Bill Simmons) tastemakers alike. Thus, their concerns end up being everyone’s concerns. For instance, when the team tanked last year, all of a sudden the league as a whole had a problem with tanking. This year? Tanking was no big deal, even though it was—if anything—more blatant (two words: "Patrick Riley").
So here’s the interesting part. The final season of The Sopranos drew more fans than ever, and a big part of it had to do with the escalating body count. But the last episode left roughly half the audience alienated, the general complaint being that it lacked an “ending.” I firmly believe that by “ending,” most people meant “some sort of bloody shootout, preferably involving Tony dying in a pinwheeling spray of blood and diner food.” In other words, it was a great last season until the end, when no violence = fan frustration.
Meanwhile, this year’s NBA has seen the Celtics rise to the best record, hence viewership and casual interest have correspondingly escalated, and the season has been universally heralded as one of the best in recent memory. But how will it end? The “dream match-up,” of course, is the Celtics-Lakers, while anything else is going to be like watching Meadow spend 5 minutes parking a car.
Full disclosure: I’m a diehard loyalist of both the NBA and The Sopranos. I’ve never not loved the NBA, even when it’s supposedly going through a “down” year. For example, I was one of a handful of people in the country absolutely mesmerized by the virtuoso shooting prowess of Chris Gatling in 1995. Similarly, I have and will continue to defend every Sopranos episode ever, including the final one (to all those who complained about the last episode, I ask you this: what more did you deranged sickos want? Phil Leotardo got his head run over by a car, for goodness’ sake, was that not enough? And just who precisely was supposed to kill Tony at the end?—he made his peace with everyone, including the Feds. You all are depraved.) So I’ll be happy either way, whether the Celtics make it or not. I enjoy the Spurs, and it’s not like the Pistons and Lakers have no history of their own.
Full disclosure #2: Before I get a bunch of hate-mail about how stupid/pointless this article is, I was on a conference call again. I'm telling you, stay away from those things. Only once the calls are done...that I feel like dying, I feel like dying.
Random epilogue: speaking of violence, if you’re ever bored, I’ve got a fun activity for you to try at home: watch a really violent movie with Closed-Captioning on. This past weekend, I DVR’d the utterly degenerate and quasi-fascist film 300, but because my wife was trying to work in the other room, all the screaming and axe-on-flesh noises were distracting her. So I turned the sound down and enabled the Closed-Captioning function, and the results were downright comical. In fact, I couldn’t resist copying down one of the scenes word-for-word. Looking over it, it’s hard to say if this is the dialogue from a movie or the minutes from the President’s latest Cabinet meeting. Check it out:
(All grunting)
(Grunts)
(Distorted grunts and yells)
(Grunting)
(Growling)
(Growling)
(Grunts)
“Father!
(Growling)
(Grunts)
(Breathing heavily)
(Growling)
(Snarls)
(Heavy, thudding footsteps, growling)
(Grunts)
(Roars)
“My king!”
(Growling softly)
(Breathing heavily)
(Sharp tinging)
(Grunts)
(Growling fiercely)
(Growling)
(Thud)
“Arcadians, now!”
“Go Show the Spartans what we can do!”
“Go!”
NARRRATOR: “They shout and curse, stabbing wildly, more brawlers than warriors. They make a wondrous mess of things. Brave amateurs, they do their part.”
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Bobcats Thoughts, 5/22
Okay, today’s topic is, “Tim Duncan Is Stupid—Fact or Fiction?” Ha! Just kidding. By the way, who says Tim Duncan isn’t engaging? My musings last week incited a veritable cyber-riot of outrage. Looking back, my biggest regret is that I didn’t up the level of accusations. Instead of just insinuating he doesn’t care about NBA history, I should have accused him of trying to bomb a bus full of nuns. Maybe I could have alleged he was in the KKK—I could have doctored up some footage to create a 7-foot tall guy in a sheet who was taking a suspiciously long time trying to light a cross on fire, just staring at it forever with his knees pointed inward, fidgeting with the matches while the other Klansmen stood around and wished he’d hurry up and just set the thing on fire already (especially when he’ll probably miss it anyway).
One last comment I wanted to make on that “de-blog-cle” was that the vitriol seemed to equally divide itself into three camps: those outraged that I would dare slander Duncan, those outraged that I would dare praise Kobe Bryant, and those outraged that I would dare mention Adam Morrison, period. The disgust was remarkably symmetric. Oh well, the important thing is, at least everyone could agree on one thing: I’m a goddamned moron—way to come together! Once again, sorry for upsetting everyone; I blame it on that conference call. Stay away from conference calls, kids, they'll make you do terrible things. Try drugs instead.
Moving right along. I don’t know about you, but to me the draft lottery brought almost nothing but good-to-wonderful news. Yeah, I know we technically lost a slot by ending up with the 9th pick rather than the 8th, but look at it this way: this limits the amount of damage Michael Jordan can do. You know how some people say that it’s rare for former great players to become great coaches, because it’s hard for them (the ex-great players) to relate to and teach people who just don’t have the same raw talent? To me, this makes complete sense. I mean, Pablo Picasso could rise from the dead right now and give me 6 months of 12-hours-a-day instruction in cubism, and I still wouldn’t be able to paint a pair of fuzzy dice, let alone Le Guitariste. Moreover, after about ten minutes Pablo would get so frustrated by my ineptitude, he’d start to wish my face looked like one of his portraits for real. So I completely buy this theory.
But what’s harder to understand is why (at least in Jordan’s case) talent can’t seem to SPOT talent. Picking Kwame Brown and Adam Morrison, trading away Rip Hamilton, selecting Sam Vincent as coach…Jordan’s reputation as an appraiser of young talent is littered with terrible judgment calls. Why can’t Jordan recognize young guys who remind him of himself? I know there “will never be another Jordan,” but does that mean he’s got to screw up so spectacularly? Forget about another Jordan, just don’t get another Kwame Brown.
And that’s the beauty of the ninth pick: it’s a protective shelter from the fallout of another Jordan stink-o draft-pick bomb. Plus, Larry Brown will be his co-pilot (more like his designated driver), and that should mitigate his decision-making further. Here’s the other good thing about our slot: we had almost no chance at drawing picks 1 and 2, but imagine if we’d gotten “lucky” and been awarded with the #3? Did you see who Chad Ford’s projecting for the 3rd pick? Brook Lopez! Egad, what if we took him! I kid you not: Jay Bilas was on the radio yesterday, and he said Lopez was a great center, except that he lacks “rebounding and finishing” ability. Umm, what’s the point then? That’s like saying you’ve got a great accountant, except that he can’t add or subtract (note: when it comes to John McCain’s economics advisers, this might actually be the case). Yup, I’ll settle for the 9th pick, get an economically-sound guard or big man, and…
…continue falling out of my chair laughing at the Knicks. As a New Yorker, this brings me to the third delicious outcome of the lottery, and it’s actually a two-parter. The first was the priceless look on Mike D’Antoni’s face when his new team sank to #6 in the lottery, while his potential team scored the #1. D’Antoni did this hilarious, "appear-then-disappear" tight smile of horror that I’ve never seen pulled off by anyone except by Jeopardy! contestants when they screw up the final round. And then, almost by way of an encore, Chad Ford projected that the Knicks will use this pick on some Italian guy named Danilo Gallinari whose dad played with D’Antoni. I swear, Madison Square Garden will collectively defecate itself if this happens—I can’t wait!
One last comment I wanted to make on that “de-blog-cle” was that the vitriol seemed to equally divide itself into three camps: those outraged that I would dare slander Duncan, those outraged that I would dare praise Kobe Bryant, and those outraged that I would dare mention Adam Morrison, period. The disgust was remarkably symmetric. Oh well, the important thing is, at least everyone could agree on one thing: I’m a goddamned moron—way to come together! Once again, sorry for upsetting everyone; I blame it on that conference call. Stay away from conference calls, kids, they'll make you do terrible things. Try drugs instead.
Moving right along. I don’t know about you, but to me the draft lottery brought almost nothing but good-to-wonderful news. Yeah, I know we technically lost a slot by ending up with the 9th pick rather than the 8th, but look at it this way: this limits the amount of damage Michael Jordan can do. You know how some people say that it’s rare for former great players to become great coaches, because it’s hard for them (the ex-great players) to relate to and teach people who just don’t have the same raw talent? To me, this makes complete sense. I mean, Pablo Picasso could rise from the dead right now and give me 6 months of 12-hours-a-day instruction in cubism, and I still wouldn’t be able to paint a pair of fuzzy dice, let alone Le Guitariste. Moreover, after about ten minutes Pablo would get so frustrated by my ineptitude, he’d start to wish my face looked like one of his portraits for real. So I completely buy this theory.
But what’s harder to understand is why (at least in Jordan’s case) talent can’t seem to SPOT talent. Picking Kwame Brown and Adam Morrison, trading away Rip Hamilton, selecting Sam Vincent as coach…Jordan’s reputation as an appraiser of young talent is littered with terrible judgment calls. Why can’t Jordan recognize young guys who remind him of himself? I know there “will never be another Jordan,” but does that mean he’s got to screw up so spectacularly? Forget about another Jordan, just don’t get another Kwame Brown.
And that’s the beauty of the ninth pick: it’s a protective shelter from the fallout of another Jordan stink-o draft-pick bomb. Plus, Larry Brown will be his co-pilot (more like his designated driver), and that should mitigate his decision-making further. Here’s the other good thing about our slot: we had almost no chance at drawing picks 1 and 2, but imagine if we’d gotten “lucky” and been awarded with the #3? Did you see who Chad Ford’s projecting for the 3rd pick? Brook Lopez! Egad, what if we took him! I kid you not: Jay Bilas was on the radio yesterday, and he said Lopez was a great center, except that he lacks “rebounding and finishing” ability. Umm, what’s the point then? That’s like saying you’ve got a great accountant, except that he can’t add or subtract (note: when it comes to John McCain’s economics advisers, this might actually be the case). Yup, I’ll settle for the 9th pick, get an economically-sound guard or big man, and…
…continue falling out of my chair laughing at the Knicks. As a New Yorker, this brings me to the third delicious outcome of the lottery, and it’s actually a two-parter. The first was the priceless look on Mike D’Antoni’s face when his new team sank to #6 in the lottery, while his potential team scored the #1. D’Antoni did this hilarious, "appear-then-disappear" tight smile of horror that I’ve never seen pulled off by anyone except by Jeopardy! contestants when they screw up the final round. And then, almost by way of an encore, Chad Ford projected that the Knicks will use this pick on some Italian guy named Danilo Gallinari whose dad played with D’Antoni. I swear, Madison Square Garden will collectively defecate itself if this happens—I can’t wait!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Bobcats EMERGENCY Thoughts, 5/14
Tim Duncan is not stupid! He’s not, he’s not, he’s not! I’m sorry I ever inferred such a thing. I haven’t been this wrong and ashamed since I mistakenly believed the lyrics in Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” were “Excuse me, while I kiss this guy” rather than “the sky” back in middle school. Now even Henry Abbott’s angry at me! What have I done?!
This was an imperfect thought experiment. A highly imperfect experiment, actually—like the “second time they tried to make a Kelly LeBrock model in Weird Science”-level of imperfect. I actually wrote this little doo-dad while on a seemingly endless conference call with one hand over my phone receiver and the other typing (stopping intermittently to perform the important task of picking my nose). It was the speaker’s rambling on the other line that actually made me recall the late Admiral Stockdale, and then I happened to glance over at this slacker dude in an adjoining cubicle, whose hair is shaggy like Adam’s (and is always just barely minimizing his World of Warcraft window in time before the boss walks by), and one thing led to another and…what can I say, I’m sorry I brought it up.
Anyway, all I was suggesting was that Tim Duncan doesn’t seem like the type who spends much time pondering his historical legacy—can we agree on that? And even that could be wrong. For all I know, he’s got a dartboard at home with David Robinson’s face and a picture of George Gervin, from which he removes a strip of clothing every time he breaks one of the Ice Man’s franchise records. I’m just going off his laconic public persona. Meanwhile, Kobe does care about history, and more importantly, his place in it (I don’t think I’m stretching with that assumption). Adam’s somewhere in the middle, and that’s a potentially dangerous thing if he ever wants to go down as one of the greats. (it could also be a moot point if his leg never heals or, even more terrifyingly to us Bobcats fans, he's--um--just not very good)
But for the record, one last time: Duncan is NOT stupid. On the contrary, he’s a thoughtful and considerate young man, apparently beloved by psychology teachers. I also just want to point out that I wrote in the article that Tim Duncan is not stupid. So after all this, if you still truly believe I think he is stupid, then you’re also probably the type who thinks AC/DC’s “Givin’ the Dog a Bone” is about proper pet care.
This was an imperfect thought experiment. A highly imperfect experiment, actually—like the “second time they tried to make a Kelly LeBrock model in Weird Science”-level of imperfect. I actually wrote this little doo-dad while on a seemingly endless conference call with one hand over my phone receiver and the other typing (stopping intermittently to perform the important task of picking my nose). It was the speaker’s rambling on the other line that actually made me recall the late Admiral Stockdale, and then I happened to glance over at this slacker dude in an adjoining cubicle, whose hair is shaggy like Adam’s (and is always just barely minimizing his World of Warcraft window in time before the boss walks by), and one thing led to another and…what can I say, I’m sorry I brought it up.
Anyway, all I was suggesting was that Tim Duncan doesn’t seem like the type who spends much time pondering his historical legacy—can we agree on that? And even that could be wrong. For all I know, he’s got a dartboard at home with David Robinson’s face and a picture of George Gervin, from which he removes a strip of clothing every time he breaks one of the Ice Man’s franchise records. I’m just going off his laconic public persona. Meanwhile, Kobe does care about history, and more importantly, his place in it (I don’t think I’m stretching with that assumption). Adam’s somewhere in the middle, and that’s a potentially dangerous thing if he ever wants to go down as one of the greats. (it could also be a moot point if his leg never heals or, even more terrifyingly to us Bobcats fans, he's--um--just not very good)
But for the record, one last time: Duncan is NOT stupid. On the contrary, he’s a thoughtful and considerate young man, apparently beloved by psychology teachers. I also just want to point out that I wrote in the article that Tim Duncan is not stupid. So after all this, if you still truly believe I think he is stupid, then you’re also probably the type who thinks AC/DC’s “Givin’ the Dog a Bone” is about proper pet care.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Bobcats Thoughts, 5/13
Before John McCain made it cool, Admiral James Stockdale sought office with a resume highlighted by his credentials as a POW hero. Stockdale was Ross Perot’s running mate in 1992, and he is mostly remembered—if he’s remembered at all—for looking discombobulated in televised debates. In fact, along with the growing suspicion that Perot was actually bat-shit crazy, Stockdale’s lack of televised appeal is often cited as one of the primary factors behind Perot’s eventual loss. Voters focused on this crucial aspect far more than on Stockdale’s astonishing military career, his numerous well-received books on philosophy, his Master’s Degree from Stanford, and the fact that his physical impairments—a large part of why he looked bad on television—were the result of 8 years of imprisonment in a Vietnamese torture chamber. In one of the more underrated tasteless acts ever, they even made a Saturday Night Live skit about it.
Anyway, in college I once had to read an essay Stockdale wrote on the dangers of having just a little knowledge. Ostensibly, this topic probably doesn’t seem like it would require a full essay to explain or justify, but Stockdale made it interesting by comparing a low knowledge level with 1) having a high amount of knowledge and 2) having zero knowledge. Curiously, Stockdale argued that having just a little bit of knowledge is not only worse than having lots of knowledge, it’s also worse than having no knowledge whatsoever.
Here’s how he proved it: while locked up in the dungeons with his fellow POWs, Stockdale divided his comrades up into three groups: those who were well-educated in American history, those who were partially-educated in American history, and the completely ignorant ones. Knowledge of American history became crucial, because one of the tactics the Vietnamese captors deployed to subvert the POWs was manipulating their existing opinions of America. To do this, the Vietnamese would “re-teach” the POWs American history by playing up some of our country’s most negative aspects (e.g., the slave trade, imperialism, etc.). If they were successful in this ploy, it was then much easier for the Vietnamese to convince the POWs that their country was abandoning them, and therefore they might as well turn traitor and spill their guts about everything they knew.
Stockdale noticed that the success of this tactic on a given POW depended on the prisoner’s knowledge level. The backwoods hillbillies with almost no education were largely impervious, because they would just respond with “B.S.” to anything the Vietnamese said to them. Meanwhile, those who were highly-educated in American history (as Stockdale was), could resist the Vietnamese by conceding that although America certainly had its flaws, it also had many redeeming features too, and was therefore worth defending. It was that middle group, however—those who knew basic facts but lacked the intellectual depth and breadth to debate various points—who were most often swayed. Hence Stockdale’s conclusion that a little knowledge could be considered worse than no knowledge at all.
This brings us to Adam Morrison.
Morrison is a well-documented autodidact with a preference for social consciousness (e.g., he likes Rage Against the Machine) and a history of free-thinking (e.g., he was Ralph Nader supporter in 2004). He also seems to be a subscriber to the Great Man Theory, the idea that the course of history is usually directed by powerful and charismatic figures, such as Malcolm X, Karl Marx, and Che Guevara (all of whom he’s cited as heroes), rather than by random movements without any particular origin. Clearly, Morrison has exhibited contemplative tendencies.
The question I have is, how deep is Morrison’s grasp of his own place in history (okay, Bobcats history)? Intelligence-levels often seem to impact basketball players much the same way that they did Stockdale’s fellow POWs. For instance, Kobe Bryant is a multilingual, avid reader, consumed with NBA history and his potential legacy within it. Consequently, he’s driven toward totally dominating basketball courts, particularly in “crunch time”; his intellectually-burning desire to be considered the greatest ever is as march a part of his constitution as his athleticism. On the opposite end of the intelligence spectrum is a guy like Tim Duncan. Duncan is by no means stupid, but he seems so completely focused on simply mastering every fundamental task that his coaches put in front of him that he takes no time to consider the deeper ramifications of anything. As a result, he’s completely immune to pressure. As a result, he’s won four championships.
Obviously, Morrison is never going to think like (which is to say, “as little as”) Duncan. Morrison is extremely self-aware and probably spends hours each day reflecting on basketball and his place in it (along with—in no particular order—global warming, the Zapatistas, Hugo Chavez, and the Congressional Democrats’ proposal to shore up the housing crisis). He thus has the potential—a la Bryant—to comprehend and appreciate how close he is to being an historically transcendent talent, and will therefore focus all of his physical and leadership abilities toward achieving that goal. However, the danger for him (or at least, for us Bobcats fans) is if he doesn’t exploit his knowledge level enough and settles for a professionally vulnerable worldview, such as “nothing really matters in this infinitely vast universe upon which my existence is just a fraction of a drop in the cosmic bucket”; and/or “what’s the point of dribbling basketballs unless the U.S. cuts all economic and diplomatic ties with those oppressive, oil-infested regimes in the Middle East?”; and/or “I could be just as happy pocketing my rookie salary and spending the rest of my life sitting outside an organic coffee bar and reading about the success of left-wing farming co-ops in pre-Pinochet Chile.” In that unfortunate event, a little knowledge will spell doom for Morrison and accelerate a slow drift into NBA obscurity. For Bobcats fans, this would be akin to treason.
We’ve heard very little about Morrison since his ACL ruptured. He’s had plenty of time for solitary reflection, and he’s at that age when everything is an influence, either good or bad. Let’s hope that he’s considered all of the possibilities and has nonetheless concluded that his quest for NBA greatness—a vocation he’s dedicated his whole life to so far—is worth defending.
Anyway, in college I once had to read an essay Stockdale wrote on the dangers of having just a little knowledge. Ostensibly, this topic probably doesn’t seem like it would require a full essay to explain or justify, but Stockdale made it interesting by comparing a low knowledge level with 1) having a high amount of knowledge and 2) having zero knowledge. Curiously, Stockdale argued that having just a little bit of knowledge is not only worse than having lots of knowledge, it’s also worse than having no knowledge whatsoever.
Here’s how he proved it: while locked up in the dungeons with his fellow POWs, Stockdale divided his comrades up into three groups: those who were well-educated in American history, those who were partially-educated in American history, and the completely ignorant ones. Knowledge of American history became crucial, because one of the tactics the Vietnamese captors deployed to subvert the POWs was manipulating their existing opinions of America. To do this, the Vietnamese would “re-teach” the POWs American history by playing up some of our country’s most negative aspects (e.g., the slave trade, imperialism, etc.). If they were successful in this ploy, it was then much easier for the Vietnamese to convince the POWs that their country was abandoning them, and therefore they might as well turn traitor and spill their guts about everything they knew.
Stockdale noticed that the success of this tactic on a given POW depended on the prisoner’s knowledge level. The backwoods hillbillies with almost no education were largely impervious, because they would just respond with “B.S.” to anything the Vietnamese said to them. Meanwhile, those who were highly-educated in American history (as Stockdale was), could resist the Vietnamese by conceding that although America certainly had its flaws, it also had many redeeming features too, and was therefore worth defending. It was that middle group, however—those who knew basic facts but lacked the intellectual depth and breadth to debate various points—who were most often swayed. Hence Stockdale’s conclusion that a little knowledge could be considered worse than no knowledge at all.
This brings us to Adam Morrison.
Morrison is a well-documented autodidact with a preference for social consciousness (e.g., he likes Rage Against the Machine) and a history of free-thinking (e.g., he was Ralph Nader supporter in 2004). He also seems to be a subscriber to the Great Man Theory, the idea that the course of history is usually directed by powerful and charismatic figures, such as Malcolm X, Karl Marx, and Che Guevara (all of whom he’s cited as heroes), rather than by random movements without any particular origin. Clearly, Morrison has exhibited contemplative tendencies.
The question I have is, how deep is Morrison’s grasp of his own place in history (okay, Bobcats history)? Intelligence-levels often seem to impact basketball players much the same way that they did Stockdale’s fellow POWs. For instance, Kobe Bryant is a multilingual, avid reader, consumed with NBA history and his potential legacy within it. Consequently, he’s driven toward totally dominating basketball courts, particularly in “crunch time”; his intellectually-burning desire to be considered the greatest ever is as march a part of his constitution as his athleticism. On the opposite end of the intelligence spectrum is a guy like Tim Duncan. Duncan is by no means stupid, but he seems so completely focused on simply mastering every fundamental task that his coaches put in front of him that he takes no time to consider the deeper ramifications of anything. As a result, he’s completely immune to pressure. As a result, he’s won four championships.
Obviously, Morrison is never going to think like (which is to say, “as little as”) Duncan. Morrison is extremely self-aware and probably spends hours each day reflecting on basketball and his place in it (along with—in no particular order—global warming, the Zapatistas, Hugo Chavez, and the Congressional Democrats’ proposal to shore up the housing crisis). He thus has the potential—a la Bryant—to comprehend and appreciate how close he is to being an historically transcendent talent, and will therefore focus all of his physical and leadership abilities toward achieving that goal. However, the danger for him (or at least, for us Bobcats fans) is if he doesn’t exploit his knowledge level enough and settles for a professionally vulnerable worldview, such as “nothing really matters in this infinitely vast universe upon which my existence is just a fraction of a drop in the cosmic bucket”; and/or “what’s the point of dribbling basketballs unless the U.S. cuts all economic and diplomatic ties with those oppressive, oil-infested regimes in the Middle East?”; and/or “I could be just as happy pocketing my rookie salary and spending the rest of my life sitting outside an organic coffee bar and reading about the success of left-wing farming co-ops in pre-Pinochet Chile.” In that unfortunate event, a little knowledge will spell doom for Morrison and accelerate a slow drift into NBA obscurity. For Bobcats fans, this would be akin to treason.
We’ve heard very little about Morrison since his ACL ruptured. He’s had plenty of time for solitary reflection, and he’s at that age when everything is an influence, either good or bad. Let’s hope that he’s considered all of the possibilities and has nonetheless concluded that his quest for NBA greatness—a vocation he’s dedicated his whole life to so far—is worth defending.
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