Backdoor Cut

Just before the trade deadline, there was talk of starting a rebuild.  The Hawks were having a middling season, nestled in the bottom half of the Eastern Conference playoff race and playing largely uninspired basketball.  Rumors had longtime franchise cornerstones Jeff Teague and Al Horford on the block.  Moving either or both would have altered the immediate trajectory of the team and the season for the worse, but the thinking was understandable.  It was easy to feel that this current iteration had reached its ceiling.  It was also reasonable to look at the Cavs and Raptors (possibly even the Celtics) and see too-long odds going forward.  Maybe it was time to take a step back and retool.

Or maybe not.  Other than a negligible move that sent Shelvin Mack to Utah and brought Kirk Hinrich back to Atlanta, the Hawks ultimately chose to stand pat.  They stumbled through the end of February, going 2-3 after the deadline, and looked pretty much resigned to a .500-ish end of the season.  Then, quietly, something started happening on a west-coast road trip.  It began with a loss.

For a team that was one of the NBA's surprise darlings just last year, scant mention has been of Atlanta this season.  The focus has, quite understandably, been on the Cavs in the East and the Spurs and Warriors in the West.  As you may have heard, neither of the latter two have lost at home yet this year, and it's an easy narrative to fit the Hawks' loss to Golden State on March 1st into that framework.  But I believe that defeat galvanized the team.  They walked into the impregnable fortress that Oracle Arena has been for the Dubs, traded punches with a juggernaut of literally historical proportions, and juuuust came out on the wrong end of a measly four-point margin in overtime, 109-105.  Granted, Steph Curry was in street clothes nursing an injured ankle, but it was still an affirmation that Atlanta could contend with the best team in the league.  The script has flipped for the Hawks ever since.

They've won eight of their last nine games, including four against playoff teams (Clips, Griz, Rockets and Pacers) and two more against squads that could easily make the postseason (Utah and Detroit, both sitting just out of the 8-seeds in their respective conferences.)  Last night's win over Houston, their 5th in a row, gave them the third best record in the East.

Over that 5-game win streak, Al Horford and Paul Millsap have combined to average 34 points and 16 rebounds per game.  Kyle Korver, who has struggled at times to regain his torrid marksmanship from last year, has shot 53.8% from deep.  Jeff Teague has put up 13 points and 8 assists a night, and backup point guard Dennis Schroder has notched 10 and 4 in just under 17 minutes per game.  Recent acquisition Kris Humphries has made solid contributions off the bench and given the team some interior depth.  And hoo boy, let's talk about Tim Hardaway Jr.  The much-maligned Draft Day maneuver that brought Hardaway to Atlanta is finally paying some dividends, and he's been absolutely blistering in his last two games: 59.05 FG%, 60.7(!!!) 3FG%, 93.75 FT%, and 20.5 PPG.  Good gawd.

As a team over that five-game stretch, the Hawks have outscored opponents 108-93 on average.  They're +10 in turnover margin, and playing the same hellacious defense that's had them ranked second only to the Spurs in Defensive Efficiency for most of the season.  They're still atrocious on the glass, particularly on the offensive end (dead last in the league in ORR with a paltry 19.4), but otherwise they're playing superb all-around basketball and cohering at precisely the right moment.  Which raises an interesting question: what of the Hawks' postseason chances?

Look, just hear me out on this for a second.  Last year was lightning in a bottle.  60 wins, the top seed in the East, four All Star selections, a COY for Bud, and the team's first ever trip to the Eastern Conference Finals.  Then LeBron and the Cavs decimated us in a clean sweep, and everyone remembered that all that sublime team basketball doesn't usually pay off without at least one elite-caliber player to take on the onus come playoff time.  But there was so, so much pressure and scrutiny on that team.  They had the weight of unfair expectations pressing down on them, and they folded.  This year, no one is talking about Atlanta.  The pressure is elsewhere, on the Warriors chasing 73 and the Cavs' myriad chemistry issues both on and off the court.  The Hawks are in a position they're much more accustomed to: flying under the radar.  Barring a massive shakeup in the standings, they'll likely face either the Hornets or Celtics in Round 1, both very winnable series with a home court advantage.  If they can survive a second-round matchup with someone (Miami? Indy?) and get back to the ECF, what then?

Everyone's been saying for months now that the Raptors are the sole legitimate threat to Cleveland in the East, but the way they're playing right now, couldn't Atlanta beat either of those teams?  They're deeper than Toronto, and have none of the dysfunction that's been threatening to implode the Cavs all season.  They've also been through the crucible of a Conference Finals now, a year older and wiser and more battle-tested than they were.  Could they ride hot shooting and lockdown defense through seven games with the Raps?  Could they beat a Cavs team whose internal struggles may overwhelm or at least hamper LeBron's individual brilliance?  You wanna bet Mike Budenholzer can't outcoach the bejesus out of Ty Lue in that series?  We'll get a decent preview of both possible matchups before the end of the season, as the Hawks have two games apiece left against Toronto and Cleveland, one home and one away for each.  If they can show up strong in those four contests, I'll be ready to believe.  For now, Atlanta can continue to play carefree basketball, oblivious to the noise of the league, knowing exactly how dangerous they are and how few people are acknowledging that fact.  Sometimes it's better to be sneaky good; to let the league keep their collective eyes on the titans holding the ball while you make a backdoor cut. 

Taking My Mind Off Of Other Sports: Ten Teams To Enjoy This NBA Season.

I'll write the Chipper piece later.  Let me get some distance, chronological, emotional and otherwise, from Friday night's sad and ugly final punctuation mark on his career.  I'm depressed about the loss, pissed about that infield fly call, and embarrassed as hell by the fans.  Or rather, the portion of the fans who briefly lost their collective minds at Turner Field and started behaving like a bunch of depraved assholes.  We take a lot of guff, Atlanta fans do, for supposedly not being as passionate about our teams as other cities.  If that was a display of "passion", well f*** it, then.  I'd rather deal with a lifetime of insults from the neanderthals in Philly, New York, and Boston than be associated with the kind of hive-mind psychosis that leads to throwing batteries at players or games being literally called on account of riot.  (Cleveland Indians, 1974.  Look it up.)  I spent the entirety of that 20-minute bottle-chucking lapse of sanity standing in the stadium concourse with my best friend; both of us Atlanta sports diehards since birth.  In between long stretches of appalled silence, the one thing we kept repeating by way of conversation was some variant of: "I can't effing believe this is happening.  Atlanta fans never do this kind of stuff.  What the holy hell is going on?"  We were as outraged by that (egregious, awful, horrible) travesty of a call as anybody, but sweet jeebus, people, there is a line between normal anger and outright stupidity, and a chunk of the crowd crossed over the damn thing like it didn't exist or they didn't care or both.  Southern hospitality, my ass.

Sadly, that was only the start of of one long, slumping weekend for Georgia sports teams.  The Yellow Jackets put up a fight but were ultimately outplayed in all phases by a feisty Clemson squad in a loss that cost Tech's D-Coordinator Al Groh his job.  The Dawgs ... I don't want to talk about what happened in Columbia.  That wasn't a football game, it was a slow parade of visceral humiliation.  Or, to put it less poetically and far more accurately: Carolina kicked Georgia's asses up and down the field for four quarters.  End of story.

Two things salvaged the weekend: A phenomenal show by Grace Potter at The Tabernacle Saturday night (seriously, go see her live if you get a chance!!!), and the Falcons playing a sloppy first three quarters but ultimately pulling it together for a win over Washington to remain undefeated. 

Oh, and one other thing.  That bright burst of light flashing across the sky like a beacon of hope or the Bat Signal or some other damned explosion of heart and grace and purpose.  That's right, folks: Basketball!!!  Preseason is underway, and things tip off in earnest the day before Halloween.  For an outstanding season preview from the reigning HEAVY-WEIGHT CHAMMPPPEEEN OF THE WOOOOOOOORLLDDDDDD!!!! of basketball writers, skip on over to Grantland and soak up Zach Lowe's breakdown of all 30 teams.  I was contemplating a full-on NBA 2012-2013 preview, but frankly, Lowe dropped the mic and walked off stage with that piece (as if we expected anything less) and there's just no need for an inferior reproduction from me.  Instead, here's a list (in no particualr order) of the 10 teams I'm most excited about watching this year:

1. Miami.  For reasons that should be obvious.  A. Watching LeBron is always worthwhile.  B.  Will Wade stay on the court this season, or is his career going to be truncated by injuries?  C.  How will they function now that they've scaled Championship Mountain?  Can they maintain the drive towards sustained excellence of MJ's Bulls and Kobe's Lakers, or will the satisfaction of what they've achieved dull the gut-check propulsion necessary to repeat not one, not two, not three, not four...?
We'll see.

2.  OKC.  Did you spend a decent portion of the off-season wondering how the NBA Finals would have turned out if Eric Maynor had been healthy?   Me too.  Are you intrigued to see what kind of impact new draftee Percy Jones III has on an already exciting team?  Me too.  Are you ready to watch Russ to explosive, enigmatic Russ things?  To see if the Durantula continues to develop his game while assaulting another scoring title?  Me too!!!  Do you wonder if The Beard might, maybe, be less than the awesome force we all think he is?  Me too.  Gosh, we have a lot in common. 

3.  The Lakers.  Yeah, yeah, I hate them, you hate them, we all hate them.  And yes, I wrote a whole piece about how their acquisition of Dwight Howard made me much, much less inclined to watch them.  You know what?  Screw it.  They're running out four future Hall of Famers, including arguably the most devastating offensive backcourt of the past 15 years.  There frontcourt is downright terrifying.  Not even Mike Brown can screw this up.  As long as Father Time doesn't wrap his icy fingers around Nash's back or Kobe's knees, their floor is an almost certain trip the Western Conference Finals, with a ceiling that extends all the way to hoisting the Larry O'Brien Trophy.   

4.  Indiana.  The Pacers put the fear of God into Miami in last year's playoffs before LeBron went into full transcendental virtuoso mode, and they smartly retained the core responsible for that.  There's just something charming about this Indy squad.  They're a fun group of guys with complimentary styles of play and, when the key cogs are all in high gear simultaneously, capable of giving any team in the league a good battle. 

5.  My very own Atlanta Hawks.  If you think that's a shameless homer pick, hang on a second.  I'll put Horford and Smoove up against any starting frontcourt in the land, Devin Harris may be the best backup PG in the NBA (which is always a nice luxury) and, alternately, pairing him (at the two) with Jeff Teague will play havoc on opposing defenses.  We have a truckload of perimeter snipers (I see you, Lou Williams and Kyle Korver), Zaza, Anthony Tolliver (great acquisition), and everybody's favorite bench big Ivan Johnson should be sound rotation contributers.  Oh, and we're going to use this small, speedy assortment of cats to run like hell.  We're Nuggets East at this point.  Title contenders?  Not a chance, but I'm calling this team early (continuing the Denver analogy) for League Pass Darlings of the season.

6.  The Clippers.  Blake Griffin has moved from Must Watch Highlight-Making Slamma Jamma to OK, what else ya got? in near record time.  He can catch oops all day, but his shooting stroke and defense need serious refinement, and it's unclear whether he's willing to put the work in to become a more complete player.  (And he's on the short list for guys whose wallets get dinged the hardest by the NBA's new flopping policy.)  Which direction he chooses will have an immeasurable impact on L.A. not just because he's the ostensible franchise cornerstone, but because it will have a direct effect on how compelled CP3 might feel to stick around.  Also: Grant Hill!  I like Grant Hill. 

7.  The (hang on, I still have to get used to typing this ...) Brooklyn Nets.  The new Jay-Z designed uniforms, the dawning of an era, the potential clash of the Russian mob with the long-established Italian and Irish crime syndicates in New York ... uh ... Brook Lopez, I guess?  OK, there's not a lot of tangible reasons to watch this team, but it's a new team, the first professional sports franchise in Brooklyn since forever, and they have the potential, depending on how the Knicks' season unfolds, to usurp a decent enough portion of the Madison Square Garden crowd's affections to start a legitimate rivalry.  Let's all enjoy the ride. 

8.  Denver.  Even though I hope the Hawks usurp their League Pass Must-Watch crown, how can you not love this team?  Manimal and JaVale fo'eva!!!  'Nuff said.

9.  The Timberwolves.  Obviously, this mostly applies once Rubio returns, but there are a bevy of fine reasons why you should be tuning in from jump.  Kevin Love being Kevin Love.  AK-47 and Derrick Williams.  Free from the Darko Curse!!!  (Oh, Boston, I'm so sorry.)  And the biggest and best incentive of all: the potential redemption of Brandon Roy.  We all remember Roy going off in epic fashion against Dallas in the playoffs two seasons ago, and how we were so glad he could muster one more stellar effort before staggering of into the sunset on his ravaged knees.  If he can mount any sort of comeback, and especially if Rubio can come back at something close to 100% by February, this becomes the most lovable team in basketball.  Here's hoping that happens.

10.  New Orleans.  Fear the brow.  Fear The Brow.  FEAR THE BROW!!!!!!  Ahem, sorry.  But, you know, fear the brow. 

All Praise Danny Ferry: Newly-Minted Atlanta Deity

Remember last week, when I wrote a post cautioning against getting overly optimistic following Danny Ferry's hire?

Well, I feel that perhaps my exact sentiments were poorly expressed therein, and I'd like to take another stab at it.

*Ahem*



DANNY FERRY IS THE GREATEST GENERAL MANAGER IN THE HISTORY OF PROFESSIONAL SPORTS!!!!!

Yes, I'm sure that was what I meant.  Thanks for letting me clarify that.  Carry on.

Curtailing The Danny Ferry Optimism Barrage

In the past 48 hours, I've heard the word "optimism" (or its adjective and adverb variations) roughly 7,354 times.  "We're filled with optimism!"  "This is a reason to be very optimistic about the future!"  And so on.   It has been a litany of happily banal peppiness.  Optimism is a pleasant and frankly a necessary emotion to have at times; unfounded optimism doubly so.  But only a fool grins blithely in the face of impending disaster.  Or, if nothing quite that dire, at least in the face of something that should decidedly not foster anything akin to hopefulness. 

Which is why I am beyond perplexed by the optimism offensive currently being waged by Atlanta's sports talk radio on Danny Ferry's behalf.  The news broke yesterday that the Hawks have signed the former Spurs executive and Cavs GM to a six-year contract, over which time he will serve as GM and President of Basketball Operations of a franchise in desperate need of a concrete identity.  We're happy about this why?

For starters, people seem to be treating this as a definitive upgrade over Rick Sund.  Certainly, more harm than good has been done to the organization's personnel and fiscal situation on Sund's watch, but it's a thornier question  as to exactly how much control he was allowed to exercise in the decision-making process that led to those problems.  When you are issued directives that range from somewhat counterintuitive to downright insane by your team's ownership, you can bite your tongue and execute them or you can lose your gainful employment.  Given the constraints and strictures he was working under, I think Sund has done a decent job.  Presuming that the new GM will somehow rectify, or at least not repeat Sund's (possibly-not-his-fault) "errors" is doing Sund a disservice and giving Ferry unearned credit.

Next stop on the Myth-Debunking Train: I've heard an awful lot of people saying "look what Danny Ferry did in Cleveland!  Multiple trips to the finals!  He'll be great!"  What he "did" in Cleveland is eloquently laid out at Hoopinion by Bret LaGree, but to summarize: he walked into a situation with LeBron F****** James, Andy Varejao, and Big Z, and couldn't muster enough supporting pieces on the roster to get the Cavs a ring.  Which, you know, led to The Decision and all the subsequent occurrences that eventually got LeBron a ring in Miami.  We all know Dan Gilbert is a pathetic, egomaniacal jackass with a penchant for whining about things in comic sans font, and it's entirely possible that he gave just as many ill-fated marching orders to Ferry in Cleveland as Sund was issued in the ATL, but ... BUT.  Danny Ferry had the greatest player of his generation and two very nice buttresses to that talent in place when he arrived, and failed to assemble a team with the depth and versatility necessary to win a championship around them.  Epic fail, Danny.

And finally, can we stop the giddiness resultant from having a former member of the Spurs organization involved with the Hawks simply because we have a member of the Spurs organization?  The key word there is "organization."  That means the entirety of people involved in making a team functional, from ownership to ball boys and interns.  The ethos and attitudes that govern franchises come from the top down.  Assuming that Danny Ferry's long association with a winning entity will ameliorate the Hawks' problems proceeds from the false premise that his arrival will automatically correct Atlanta's collective organizational thinking on every rung of the ladder.*  

Consider the Spurs' NFL equivalent: the New England Patriots.  No franchise in football has been run with more consistent excellence over the past 12 years; yet nearly every disciple of "Belichick U" has fallen on his ass the moment he left, because other teams do not have ownership as smartly hands-off and organizational philosophies as universally bought-into as the Pats.  Just because Danny Ferry comes from a team where excellence is the province every single employee does not mean he can wave a magic wand and turn the Hawks into Spurs East.

*For those who will counter this argument by pointing out how well GM Sam Presti, another Spurs alum, has done in Oklahoma City, let me remind you of a few things.  A. Drafting Kevin Durant only after Portland disastrously took Greg Oden 1st can make anyone look good in hindsight.  And B. Presti has been able to build around Durant with Westbrook, Harden, and co. largely because everyone except KD is either still on rookie contracts or wasn't that expensive to sign.  The real test will be how he handles things when it's time for people to get paid.   

One last thought on the on-court talent.  Atlanta's current situation does not involve anyone close to the caliber of the finest players of Ferry's previous tenures.  As good as Smoove, Horford, and Teague are, they are a class or three below LeBron and the Duncan/Parker/Ginobili trio that Ferry had the benefit of working with in the past.  Because of Joe Johnson's contract and Atlanta's lack of well-positioned draft picks, he's probably not going to be able to acquire top-tier talent anytime soon.  Also, the Hawks just re-upped Larry Drew, whose coaching efforts have been passable at best.  The combination of being severely limited in roster and cap flexibility and a coach who has thus far proved unable to maximize the current roster's efficacy does not bode well for improving the Hawks' fortunes.

None of this is to say that Danny Ferry will necessarily do a bad job in his new role.  Given the constraints of his situation, I certainly would not consider the next few years mirroring the last few (choppy regular seasons culminating in first- or second-round playoff exits) to be a failure.  I merely wanted to point out that all this unbridled optimism is way off the mark, that Ferry's history has not been stellar when viewed within the proper context, and that it matters little who sits behind the Hawks' GM desk as long as the ASG insists on forcing poor decisions and Joe Johnson's contract is on the books.  Be hopeful.  Be optimistic.  But be reasonable about it.  Miles to go before we sleep, people.  Miles to go. 

Backs Against The Wall.

I remember with perfect clarity the first time I stepped into the arena proper within the TD Garden.  That the Celtics were not my team was immaterial at that moment.  As a lifelong NBA basketball fanatic, suddenly the "Celtic Mystique", that threadbare and nondescript phrase, made a lot of sense.  You raise your eyes to those seventeen championship banners and that litany of retired jerseys.  Then you lower them and gaze at that parquet floor, transported to its present location in order to preserve the surface upon which the sneakers of generations of basketball titans trod and squeaked.  You share all of this with the pregame crowd jostling around, reeking of beer and high-wattage excitement; the understanding that the place holds a specialness is transmuted through instant osmosis.  It's the feel of the thing that counts.  Sure, the ghosts are there, even if they had to follow the parquet across town to make it.  But the ghosts aren't the point.

Older Boston natives will undoubtedly scoff at the preceding paragraph.  They sat in the original, non-air-conditioned, sightline-obstructed Boston Garden, and I'm sure they'll regard an outsider's reverence of the new incarnation with disdain.  (As they regard pretty much everything about outsiders.)  Nonetheless, I was there and I know what I saw and felt.  Maybe TD Garden ain't THE Boston Garden, but it is most definitely the metaphysical heir thereof.

All of which is to say: I know exactly what my beloved Hawks are up against tonight.  They have to contend with Kevin Garnett's vicious intensity and Paul Pierce's essential Truth-iness.  They're dealing with Ray Allen's pristine jumper and Rajon Rondo's all-around ingenuity.  They're certainly pitting a heavily over-matched Larry Drew against Doc Rivers.  And, tired as it sounds, they're up against that "Celtic Mystique."

It's not a figment or fabrication, either.  It isn't magic or voodoo or ephemeral haze.  When I said earlier that the ghosts aren't the point, what I meant is this: the "Celtic Mystique" isn't the last whiff of Red Auerbach's cigar, it's the crowd.  They define, in the lexicon of passion and fervor, that long-vaunted aura of invincibility.  Whatever crowd happens to fill the seats in the TD Garden, just like the crowds in the old Garden, carries with it a specific emotional resonance.  They are single-minded and obsessed, and they are legion.  I have been in that building for a playoff game, and I can tell you as a neutral observer that it's a minefield for the opposition.  There's a symbiosis between the crowd and the team, a reciprocal fulfillment of shared hopes that hums and quakes over the course of a game.  The only function of the folks in the stands is to demoralize those wearing the visitors' uniforms and elevate the guys in green and white.  For the duration of the clock, every Celtic is a god, every foe is a devil, and every ref is vilified or sainted depending on how his whistle blows.  That sort of ubiquitous and unrelenting psychosis can wreak havoc on the interlopers.

The Hawks have two things going for them tonight.  First, the core of this team has been in that building, under very similar circumstances, before.  On the losing side of the effort, but still.  Second, and more importantly, they have their anchor back.  Al Horford is the beacon, the nucleus around which the erratic and disparate natures of Josh Smith and Joe Johnson and all the rest can revolve without total dissolution.  His reemergence last game was a reminder of what this team was intended to look like before injuries decimated the frontcourt, and that image is somewhat wonderful.  I've been watching the game as I type this (I beg your pardon for the late finish to this post), and the second quarter is just underway with the Hawks up 28-25.  I can only hope the lead will ultimately hold.  I can only hope the TD Garden Crowd, the heart and guts and true curators of the Celtic Mystique, won't fulfill their traditional roll tonight.

Tonight, with our backs against the wall, I hope the Hawks can close their ears to the deafening roars of history and mythology and sheer Bostonian dickheadedness.  To diffuse the Celtic Mystique, we must shut it out.  We must be deaf, and we must also play a masterpiece of a game.

Come on Hawks, let's go Beethoven on their ass.    

Splashdown.

When Derrick Rose crumpled to the floor on Saturday and took Chicago's title aspirations with him to the locker room (from whence neither would return intact), my first thought was that the road to the Eastern Conference Finals had just been rendered easier for the Hawks.  My second thought was: "those poor bastards."  If you follow sports with any devotion at all, you had no small amount of empathy for what every Bulls fan felt in that instant.  We've all been there.  Injuries can change the entire complexion of a season with vicious finality, and few things will sucker punch a fan base like witnessing the immediate decimation of hope.    It's a sickening, dizzying feeling when you can see everything you thought you knew evaporating in the blink of an eye.  Season: done.  Do not pass go.

Along with all other Hawks fans, I went through this when Al Horford went down with a torn pectoral early in the season.  Without our steadiest on-court presence and defensive anchor, it seemed like the season was pretty much shot.  Improbably, even after losing Zaza Pachulia depleted their entire supply of quality bigs, the Hawks continued playing above-average basketball most nights and eked out home-court advantage for the opening playoff series with Boston.  I figured that was about as far as we were taking this ride, and picked the C's in seven in my round one preview.  Then we took game one.  With Ray Allen's ankles acting their (advanced) age and Rondo getting a DNP: "I stupidly chest-bumped a ref and got myself suspended, thus forcing my team to start Avery Bradley and Mickael Pietrus as the back court in a playoff game," there was suddenly the very real possibility that we could win game 2 and head to TD Garden up 2-0.  Nobody's kidding themselves that we could knock off The Heat in a series, but getting to the Eastern Conference Finals seemed feasible.  Rondo aside, the Hawks are decidedly younger and faster than Boston, and with the compressed season having exhausted the league more than usual, it was possible that we could trump a superior team by just running them out of the gym. 

You have to understand how much that would mean to Hawks fans.  Boston-Atlanta is not a rivalry, per se.  Certainly no Celtics fan would acknowledge it as such.  But the C's are always the team standing in our way come playoff time; they are the authors of our misfortune.  (Or co-writers, I suppose.  We're pretty good at scripting our own basketball disasters in Atlanta.)  A brief history:

In 1986, an electrifying Hawks team featuring the diminutive (and totally awesome) Spud Webb and the massive (and totally awesome) Dominique Wilkins (and point-guarded by Doc Rivers of all people) made it to the Eastern Conference Semifinals.  Atlanta was delirious.  The Falcons were awful, the Braves stunk, the Flames had left for Canada in '80, but here, finally, was a modicum of sports success for one of our teams.  Then we ran into the perfectly-attenuated basketball machine that was the '86 Celtics.  Bird, McHale, Chief, DJ, Walton.  They absolutely took us apart, magnanimously allowing us a solitary victory in one of the most lopsided playoff drubbings of all time en route to the title.  It was a stylized execution, and not even 'Nique's most thunderous jams could mitigate the humiliation and futility of it all. 

In 1988, we met Boston again in the Eastern Semis.  To say we acquitted ourselves better in this one would be an egregious understatement.   We pushed the C's all seven games in a truly spectacular series that became an instant classic.  Game seven is immortalized in the NBA canon simply as "The Bird/'Nique duel."  I still remember sitting on the couch with my dad watching that game in total awe, enraptured by the heights of excellence to which those two guys pushed each other.  Seriously, click the link.  That was a phenomenal game.  Which, you know, we lost.  It is positively soul-crushing to watch your team play that well and still come up short.  Stupid Celtics.  Stupid Bird.  

...

(Insert long gap where neither Boston or Atlanta were any good at professional basketball.)

...

2008.  The Hawks snuck into the eighth seed on the strength of a promising young core (Horford, J-Smoove, and Joe Johnson) that became the nucleus of our current iteration.  The newly reconstructed and revitalized Celtics, a 66-win juggernaut of a team, regarded this as a perfunctory exercise at best; a mere formality.  Atlanta showed them differently.  We scrapped and clawed and gave Boston all they wanted for seven games.  Joe Johnson shot the lights out.  Josh Smith did Josh Smith things.  Zaza Pachulia endeared himself to KG and the Garden crowd.  (Not really at all.)  Truthfully, it may have been the greatest totally-inconsequential-in-hindsight series ever played.  And, of course, we lost.  Again

It always goes that way with us and Boston.  Which is why I wouldn't care if we got swept in the second round it we could, just this once, beat the Celtics in a playoff series.  I don't think that's too much to ask from the sports gods, right? ... Right?

Last night wasn't much of a surprise.  Anyone who is even tangentially familiar with the Hawks will tell you that we have a horrible tendency to play mediocre basketball when we think we ought to win a game without too much trouble.  (See: getting smacked down, at home, by a Raptors team starting three guys on 10-day contracts.  God, that game was awful.)  True to form, we came out flat and stayed that way for most of Game 2.  Also, when Paul Pierce is at his utmost Truth-iness like he was last night, there's just not much you can do.  Number 34 smoked us, pure and simple.  The loss I can handle.  Or could have, if not for that sickening, dizzying feeling I was talking about earlier. 

I wasn't expecting to feel that way again this year.  We've already had more than our fair share of injuries this season, thank you very much.  So when the first inklings started filtering into my brain, I did my best to ignore it.  Josh Smith was clearly not 100% last night.  Hell, he hasn't been for much of the season, but he's soldiered through because there were stretches this year when he was our only reliable offensive weapon and we needed him.  As he dragged a bad left knee around through much of the fourth quarter, I started to worry.  Without Smoove, it would be categorically impossible to advance past Boston.  But if we could just get through the game and give him a few days' rest, it might be alright.  And right about then, that damnable feeling crept up behind me and every other Hawks fan with a neat length of lead pipe and started laying to.  With a shade under five minutes left on the clock, Josh Smith collided with Kevin Garnett, and was promptly taken to the locker room for the remainder of the game.  On the replay, you could clearly see that left knee giving out on impact.  Not much, just a tic, but it was moving in a way that normal knees do not. 

The official word from the Hawks today is that J-Smoove has a sprained left knee, but no serious structural damage.  He is questionable for Game 3.  If we lose that game, I'm 99.9999% positive we will lose the series.  Even if he can go, a less-than-healthy Josh Smith is a worrisome proposition. The man's entire game is predicated on explosiveness and preternatural athleticism.  If that knee prevents him from flying around the court in his accustomed manner, he will become a very ordinary basketball player, and possibly something less.  And the Hawks cannot win with that version of Josh Smith on the floor.  We need the high-velocity, high-altitude monster that put up 16 points, 12 boards, and 5 dimes last night before that ill-fated fourth quarter.  Otherwise, we don't have a prayer. 

So I'm pouring one out for you tonight, Chicago.  (Pounds chest in solidarity.)  Smoove may not be quite the same caliber as D-Rose, but our outlook is equally bleak without him.  If we see you in round 2, let's hug it out before we try to knock each other off.  After all, when our teams get snake-bitten like this, we all deserve a little sympathy.      

Hawks/Clippers: A Disjointed Retrospective

I just returned home from the Hawks/Clippers game at Philips Arena.  (I am a diehard Hawks fan, but I refuse to call our venue "The Highlight Factory" until we can at least make the Eastern Conference Finals.)  Since I'm still recovering from a truly ridiculous weekend (Thanks Kev!), I'm not going to get into my usual protracted jaunt.  Instead, please allow me a few scattered thoughts on the evening:

1. Philips really is a great place to watch a basketball game.  It's just the right size; there's not really a bad seat in the house.  There are bathrooms located directly off of every entrance to the seating area, so you never have to wander around the concourse looking for a place to ... uh ... go.  The layout of merchandise, food, and drink vendors also renders it unnecessary to travel more than 20 feet to get what you need.  Really just a well-designed joint all around.

2.  I had never seen Blake Griffin live and in person before tonight.  If you're a (non-broke) NBA junkie who goes to a ton of games, you're probably aware of what I'm about to say already.  If, like me, you're a (broke) NBA junkie who can't afford to attend games very often, or just don't quite care enough about hoops to go to the games, let me say this: Blake Griffin is MASSIVE in person.  I mean, ridiculously, Incredible-Hulk-like imposing.  Even in the layup line, casually messing around, he's a jaw-dropping sight.  When he's barreling into the paint with a rivet-busting head of steam, you preemptively recoil at the Richter-scale chaos that's about to be unleashed.

3.  I hate, hate, hate that Atlanta sports fans take all the crap we do from the rest of the world.  I hate that there's a basis for it more.  (I haven't checked attendance figures, but the arena tonight could not have been more than 65-70% capacity.  For a game against a marquee opponent.  Sheesh.)  I hate this.  Except when I'm getting tickets, that is.  I paid $160 total for two seats tonight.  Our seats were about fifteen rows up from the floor and midway between halfcourt and the stage-left basket.  I bought these on Friday.  Killer, killer location to watch the game.  Ashamed of my city's lack of full, unconditional love and support for our team and overall not liking the NBA all that much?  You bet.  Enjoying paying a relative pittance for phenomenally good seats to a game because my city won't fully, unconditionally love and support our team and doesn't like the NBA all that much?  Hell yes.

4.  Unrelated: Chipper Jones just crushed a homer.  He turned 40 today.  Happy birthday Chipper!!!!  I'm gonna miss ya, man!!!

5.  Watching Chris Paul in person, when you can really follow him without the TV producer's choice of shot focus and camera angles getting in the way, is watching quiet genius functioning at all times.  I know CP3 occasionally gets chippy and plays to prove a point, but mostly he just goes about the business of eviscerating people in a workmanlike fashion.   You recall a few choice moments, some nice dimes, some great drives to the rack, a few beautiful jumpers, but you almost never get the cumulative, incapacitating "whoah" effect that comes from watching a Kobe or LeBron.  Then you check the final stat line you go: HUH?  He did what?  When?  I knew he could and probably would.  I know he's the best pure point in the league, but HOW?  WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN?!??!  Tonight, Paul put up a 34/8/5 with 2 steals and shot the lights out.  In a completely unobtrusive manner, he devastated the Hawks.  (Though my boys still won the game, thankfully.)  Good grief it is a joy to watch that man play basketball.

6.  Is their some sort of ethical taboo prohibiting athletes in completely unrelated sports from having the same nickname?  Because, if there is no such bylaw in the sports world, we need to give Ivan Johnson the "Honey Badger" sobriquet.  No offense to Tyrann Mathieu, but Ivan really is more deserving of this.  I watched tonight as Johnson (um, Honey Badger) gave Blake Griffin all he wanted on the defensive end.  His final line (6 points, 7 boards, 2 blocks) may not look like much, but trust me, he was in # 32's grill all night.  He shoved, he scrapped, he took Blake off his spots, out of his rhythm, and generally didn't give a damn about getting down and dirty and accruing a few fouls as long as he was bulldogging Griffin's every move.  When the playoffs start, Larry Drew needs to have the good sense to unleash him on KG for 20 minutes a game.  God, I love Ivan Johnson.  

7.  It's amazing how old T-Mac looks up close and personal.  Sad, really.  I know he's loathed around The Association for his (admittedly horrible and indefensible) quitting/choking on multiple occasions, but it's unnerving and depressing to see one of the greatest pure scorers of his generation reduced to what McGrady is now.

8.  Seeing it live really brought it home: We have zero, or possibly even a negative quantity, of depth in the paint.  Injuries have ravaged this team to near ineffectualness against certain opponents.  Ugh!!! 

9.  There are plenty of less-than-complimentary things I could say about Larry Drew, but credit the man for holding a fractured and injury-riddled team together these last few months.  Despite being decimated by various ailments to pretty much every key player at some point or another, we're still locked into the 5th seed.  Tip of the cap to you, Larry.

10.  Jeff Teague briefly transmogrified himself into Dwight Howard tonight, delivering two thundering blocks that absolutely set the joint off in fits of euphoria.  Also, he finished with 21 points.  Despite a paltry 2 assists, I'm still calling this a wonderfully fiery performance.

11.  Joe Johnson's final, ludicrous banker trey was beautiful.

12.  Dear Smoove: I love you dearly, and if we ever trade you I'll be royally upset, but seriously, knock it off with the outside jumpers.  That's not your shot, buddy.  Mostly because you just can't hit it consistently, but also because it pulls you out of position to grab rebounds.  With Al and Zaza gone, deep down in places we don't like to talk about at parties, we WANT you on that glass, we NEED you on that glass.  Please stop taking those shots.  Wreak havoc in the paint; it's where you belong, my friend.  (That said, kudos on throwing up an 18/5/10.  You are a golden god.)

13.  Please let Al Horford be at least semi-functional for the playoffs.

14.  Ditto for Zaza.

15.  I am deeply exhausted and really need to go to sleep.  Goodnight, moon.  Goodnight, room.  Goodnight, readers everywhere.  Peace.    

Dig This Groove: Don't Trade Smoove!

Even within the context of a compressed and grueling 2011-2012 NBA season, the Atlanta Hawks have been especially susceptible to the injury bug. Al Horford is gone until the playoffs, Joe Johnson has missed significant time, and seemingly half our role players have been posting various ailment-related DNPs in the box scores of late. The sole bright spark in the midst of this chaos, the turbine that continues to power playoff hopes even as things are crumbling, has been Josh Smith.

Smoove has become a one-man arsenal of aggressive versatility recently, averaging 23.6 PPG, 11.2 RPG, 1.5 Blocks, and roughly 3 dimes and 1 steal over the last five games, and playing his usual ferocious defense. He is submitting these sublime performances for three reasons: first, there ain't anyone else healthy on the Hawks who can produce right now, so he's filling the gaps as best he can. Second, Smith is unquestionably playing with an Everest-sized chip on his shoulder after getting snubbed from the All-Star Game, and it's fueling his spree of sheer ballitude (shut up, it's a sorta-word) like a NOS feed pushing a modded-out street racer. And third: he could do this all the time if he so chose.

Unfortunately, this is also the Josh Smith who takes so many ill-advised long jumpers, which he can't hit but insists on jacking up anyway. This is the same guy who might as well be phoning it in from Thailand some nights he's so checked out. And now, it's the same guy who wants out of Atlanta.

A few days ago, Smith let it be known that he would very much like a trade before the March 15 deadline. This is both thoroughly unsurprising and perfectly understandable. The Hawks are mired in the perpetual make-the-playoffs-and-get-crushed-by-a-superior-team doldrums. They play a sluggish isolation style that minimizes the effectiveness and beauty of Smoove's game, which is flying up, down, and around the court and demolishing anyone in his path. Oh yes, and Josh Smith is the only player I've ever seen get booed by his home crowd every time he takes a shot more than five feet from the rim. I can see where the man might want a change of scenery.

Over at the bastion of internet awesomeness known as Hardwood Paroxysm, Noam Schiller wrote about the possibility of a Josh Smith trade, and that post included the following:

"Of course, [a trade] fits with us just fine. We hate Josh Smith in Atlanta, and we fully understand if he hates it as well."

Dear Noam, I am a huge fan of your work, but please, please shut up. Atlanta absolutely cannot trade Smoove. I might be the only one, but I most definitely do not hate him. I love Josh Smith; I treasure him, in fact. Because think about it: Josh Smith is almost all we have.

We're not getting out of this maddening, middling mediocrity until the financial albatross that is Joe Johnson's contract comes off the books. (And maybe not even then because the ASG ownership is a walking debacle and a waking nightmare.) Not only is Joe the most overpaid "star" in the game, he's also by far the least entertaining. I have never vehemently disliked watching a good Hawks player before, or any Hawks player, really, but I really, really, hate watching Joe Johnson play basketball. He is the most thoroughly "blah" twenty-a-night guy of all time. Then there's good ol' Al Horford, who when healthy is so very good at his job, but it's all dirty work and grind, the kind of thing you deeply appreciate but can't really admire. I love the man, but he'll never be the recipient of breathless superlatives. Jeff Teague's emergence has been ... uh ... nifty. Yup, nifty is about the right level of adjective for that. Nothing less, nothing more. Zaza Pachulia has one of the most enjoyable names to pronounce in the history of the game, but he's precisely adequate as a basketball player. T-Mac is fun when he gets cooking, but he's so old that it's a rare occasion at best.

Ivan Johnson is, well, freaking awesome. Give him more minutes, Larry. Please.

And then there's Smoove, who is the only player on our roster capable of owning the term "awe-inspiring." Yes, he's monumentally frustrating at times. Yes, those 19-footers make me alternately cringe and scream at the television. But I've reached a place of acceptance with Josh, because when he rams one home on the break or flies out of nowhere for a monster block, he's the only guy in the league who approaches (and occasionally surpasses) LeBron territory in terms of sheer "HOLY CRAP DID YOU SEE THAT?!?!?!" athleticism. He is, quite simply, a totally unique entity to behold on a basketball court. We can't lose him.

So please, please, ye gods of hoops, don't let the Hawks trade Josh Smith. Bland and uninspiring as they are, he is the only consistently fun thing about watching my team, and I will put up with every last terrible decision and slacker night in exchange for those moments when he shifts into that gear that only he possesses and makes the impossible look effortless. From my point of view, that's more than a fair trade.