Bobcats Acquire Richardson, Smith’s Scorn

The Bobcats traded a 19-year-old—who by all accounts isn’t NBA-ready—for a 26-year-old shooting guard with career averages of 18 points, 5 rebounds, and 1+ steals per game. Obviously, they were among the biggest losers of the draft last night. At least, that was the opinion hollered by Stephen A. Smith, the Ann Coulter of NBA broadcasters. Chad Ford also criticized the move, albeit it in a slightly more humane manner, calling it “a chance to overpay Jason Richardson.”

With all due respect to Ford, and with NONE to Smith, I don’t see the downside on this one. Richardson’s due roughly $12 million a year for the next four seasons, which will happen to be the prime of his career—you think that’s overpaying? First, we had more cap space than an 8-1/4 fitted Yankee on Mini-Me. Second, wait until we find out what the Nets (or whoever the suckers are) shell out for an over-the-hill Vince Carter, or what the Sonics plunk down for Rashard Lewis, THEN we’ll see how much we overpaid. Plus, with the exception of last year, J-Rich has never played fewer than 72 games a season—the guy’s durable. We needed a 2 badly, and when Seattle shipped Ray Allen to Boston, it became obvious we weren’t going to be able to get Lewis.

I’m not quite as ecstatic about Jared Dudley at #22, unless we’re trying to come up with our own version of The Hanson Brothers, because we’ve got Morrison and Herrmann already as backup 3’s. So now I’d trade one of the three if possible. I’m not sure which one, but I can tell you this much: he’ll have a stupid haircut. With about $19 million remaining to play with, we shouldn’t have any problem re-signing G-Dub, then maybe tossing some dollars at Matt Carroll, after which we’ll still have room for somebody else. Package one of the Hansons and take on the contract of a center who doesn’t succumb to exhaustion before the season even starts, and we’ll be in business!

Not to sound too giddy, but I’m happy about this draft. And frankly, I needed some good news. I’ve spent the past week trying to find a therapist for a loved one who’s suffering from depression. If you’ve never tried this before, I don’t recommend it. So far, every prospective therapist seems to be either a) not covered by my insurance, b) not taking any new patients, or c) on vacation. After about the sixth failed attempt, I started getting depressed myself; I needed to see a therapist about not being able to see a therapist. And then, to top it all off, my dog Lincoln ran away from me during our evening walk and bounded straight into this swamp near our house that he adores. It’s ridiculous, because he makes a beeline straight for it anytime he gets loose, but once he jumps into it, he can’t move. So he ends up just standing there stupidly like that horse in the The Neverending Story until I can wade in to fetch him. Thus, still covered in doo-doo brown from hauling him out when the draft started, I was in no mood for a stupid pick or a terrible trade. In other words, thank God I’m not a Celtics fan.