Guessing Game: Kobe and the Definition of Legacy

Apologies for the protracted absence.  We've had family in town this past week and between work, the holiday, and tour-guiding them all over Atlanta's sundry attractions, I haven't had any time at all to sit down and write.  Since baseball is All-Star Breaking for the next few days and the NFL will be a hail of mini-camps and contract disputes until August, let's talk hoops.  The NBA has gone sideways with trades and signings over the past two weeks as the league's terrain undergoes a heavy re-landscaping.  The Hawks suddenly have cap space again, the Heat have Ray Allen, the Nets acquired Joe Johnson's contract and safely re-upped Deron Williams, the Pacers retained Roy Hibbert, the Knicks snatched J-Kidd, Houston's plans fell apart entirely, and the Timberwolves took a flyer on Brandon Roy.  Oh yeah, and the Lakers signed Steve Freaking Nash.

Before we go any further, I would like to offer my sincere condolences to Suns fans everywhere.  If this trend persists, Phoenix is going to wind up with almost as many basketball abandonment issues as Seattle.  The Matrix, Joe Johnson, STAT (whose departure looks great for the Suns in retrospect), and now Nash.  Sure, Robert Sarver is a doofus whose continual refusal to do spend what is necessary to build a winning organization has precipitated most of those moves, but the best guys always seem to leave the desert for other, more verdant (both metaphorically and literally) destinations.  Nash's departure, by far, is the worst blow to morale the Suns could have suffered, and though I suspect no one begrudges him leaving to pursue a ring in the seemingly infinite twilight of his career, his choice of L.A. has to rankle.  So, Phoenix, I'm sorry.

Now we come to the matter of exactly how this is going to work.  Over at Grantland, Sebastian Pruiti did his usual stellar job of assessing the on-court tactical ramifications, and Hardwood Paroxysm's Steve McPherson delved into whether or not Kobe is emotionally capable of ceding enough possessions to Nash to make their backcourt pairing functional.  The most intriguing question though, at least to me, is which voices in his head Kobe is and will be listening to.  Whose version of events would he prefer to be remembered in fifty years?  How is he defining the single word that has seemingly dominated every action of his career thus far?

What does "legacy" mean to Kobe Bean Bryant? 

I honestly think Steve Nash couldn't care less about the L word.  He's smart enough to know that he is a. arguably the greatest pure shooter in NBA history b. inarguably the best offensive point guard of his generation c. a future Hall of Famer and d. chasing a ring but absolutely content with that resume otherwise.  He's great but not All-Time Top 10 great.  And he's OK with that.  Kobe, obviously, is another story.  But we've had a hand in creating that narrative as well. 

Outside of those who bleed purple and gold, we as NBA fans have generally put Kobe in a hell of a tough spot over the years.  The same bloodthirsty, pathological competitiveness we praised in Jordan became the linchpin of all criticism and invective leveled at Bryant.  Kobe's a ball hog.  Kobe's an a-hole.  Kobe drove Shaq out of town.  Kobe only cares about winning if he can be the hero of the hour.  We buried him even as he came as close as anyone ever has to replicating Jordan's two-way transcendence on a basketball court.*  A guy who could score from anywhere on the floor in the teeth of any defense; a hoops savant who became a devastating passer when he opted to relinquish the ball; a vicious perimeter defender; an implacable demon with ice water in his veins and pale ghosts behind the eyes; Kobe The Destroyer was lord of all he surveyed.    

*Note: until LeBron's career is further along, anyway.     

And yet ... we never wanted to give him credit.  Even at the apex of his otherworldly powers, we tended to focus on the flaws.  I can't think of an athlete who has had their nits picked more than Kobe.  (Yes, even LeBron.)  And the thing about our collectively scrutinizing gaze is that it has irrevocably shaped his motivations and attitudes over the years.  Despite what he would have us believe, Kobe cares a great deal about what we think because in a way, we are the curators of his legacy.

After all, we're the ones who will tell our children and grandchildren what it was like to watch him play, but also who he was as a person, at least in the public eye.  That perception will resonate long after he plays his last game and his likeness is enshrined in Springfield.  And so what legacy Kobe leaves behind ultimately becomes a guessing game.  What, in the end, do we want of him?  The sixth ring is obviously a requirement to vault him into must-be-discussed-with-MJ-even-though-that's-patently-absurd status, but what aesthetic path to its attainment will we most appreciate?

Scenario 1: Kobe willingly subverts his game and allows Nash the keys to the offense.  His scoring totals and usage rate will decline, but Nash's artistry brings substantially increased output from Gasol and Bynum via pick'n'roll and pick'n'pop situations.  Meanwhile, Kobe winds up with a preposterous amount of open looks as defenses try to account for a point guard as surgically talented and nonstop as Nash having so many weapons at his disposal.  Also, Nash needs his considerable allotment of nightly rest.  Miraculously, Mike Brown is smart enough to stagger the rotations properly, Kobe can get his ball domination fix while the ancient PG is on the pine, and his notoriously petulant nature is still marginally appeased.  With Nash at the helm and Kobe as his most devastating option, the Lakers destroy the Western Conference because you simply can't stop that quantity and variety of offensive firepower, then defeat Miami in the Finals when the Heat can't handle L.A.'s interior size.  

Probable legacy ramifications upshot: Everyone who has eviscerated Kobe over the years for being a ball-stopping egomaniac gets a little misty as they discuss this final, wonderful capstone to his career.  "He finally figured it out," they'll gush.  "Kobe learned to share, to be not just a great basketball player but a consummate teammate!"  Everyone loves a redemption story, and in many people's eyes, this would be the ultimate NBA iteration of such.  Conversely, everyone who perpetuated the "he can't win without Shaq" and then, after he did, the "he only won his first three because he had Shaq" argument will shout that he only got his last ring because Nash showed up to run things and put an aging demigod over the top one last time.     

Scenario 2: Kobe plays nice for the first six weeks of the season, then reverts to form.  Nash, because he's wired the way he is, plays along, knocking down shots from all over the perimeter or finding Bynum and Gasol for easy looks down low.  Nash winds up enjoying the decreased workload's lesser physical toll and flourishes as one of the most dangerous and versatile second options of all time.  Meanwhile, Kobe continues to kill people in iso's, but is much more comfortable because he can give it to Nash for stretches if the trapping becomes to heavy and persistent.  Also, opponents now live in mortal terror of doubling The Mamba with the most dangerous shooter ever roaming the arc.  Nash essentially becomes a much better version of Robert Horry in the playoffs, while Kobe remains the archetypal alpha dog and closer, drops 38 in the clinching game, and takes Finals MVP along with his sixth title. 

Probable legacy ramifications upshot: Those who have always found Kobe's brand of me-first annihilation somewhere between distasteful and VIOLATING THE SANCTITY OF THE GAME says that despite six rings and a litany of individual career achievements, Kobe was a mean, selfish S.O.B. who didn't or couldn't "play the game the right way."  Meanwhile, those who drink the Mamba Kool-Aid declare that while Nash was a wonderful addition to the team, Kobe was the reason they won the title because he's clutch and a proven winner and everything else you hear from that crowd.

(Note: if the Lakers get bounced in the second round again, it will be Kobe's fault in many people's minds.  Either he was selfish and didn't relinquish enough touches to let Nash achieve maximum efficacy, or he was too old to sustain his dominance and couldn't cowboy up anymore, and gave the rock to Nash too much.  Both viewpoints are somewhat idiotic, but we are illogical creatures and that's how we operate sometimes.)

Ultimately, whatever percentage-based alchemy of hero ball and and letting Nash be Nash Kobe settles on for the coming year will dictate which of the above reactions is most prevalent among the fans and scribes who determine the fates and gradations of NBA history.  Kobe knows this, and he's probably sitting somewhere right now wondering what his best course of action is; not just to get that sixth ring, but to do so in the most beneficial fashion for his legacy.

To be fair to Kobe, he only has to deal with this because Jordan came first.  MJ had the luxury of not worrying about any future historical context, because he was creating that context on the fly.  (Pun intended.)  There was nothing in the past for him to be compared to.  As someone said shortly before he was drafted, Jordan was Dr. J, only with a jump shot.  And killer perimeter defense.  And even more killer will and instinct.  Like Doc, Jordan had a prominent showmanship element to his game, but it was calibrated to destroy and demoralize, not amaze and entertain.  The point is, Jordan wasn't the least bit concerned with history and his place therein.  He was a gunslinger, rolling into town to call out the best and fastest any adversary had to offer.  Then, the flash of steel in sunlight, the report echoing in the dusty street, a dead man on the ground.  And Jordan on his horse, riding on to the next town, the next challenge.  And so on.  Jordan made history by destroying everything in his path.  Kobe knows he must destroy everything in his path in order to make history.  It's a subtle difference, but I believe it explains much of why Kobe is the way he is.        

A hundred years hence, some NBA historian will dig up Kobe's numbers.  Five (or six?) rings, insane point totals, finals MVPs, PER or whatever replaces it in the metrics crowd, win shares, etc.  The numbers won't matter.  We all know Kobe is a badass; we don't need stats to back up the obvious.  What will matter is how we remember him.  This next season will begin (and possibly entail) the final chapter of Kobe Bryant's career.  His legacy is up to him, but it's also up to us.  The question is what do we want from Kobe, but it's also what does he think we want?  Alpha winner/killer?  Integrated, unselfish cog in the machine?  Whatever the outcome, how he elects to play this season won't just be the last word on his legacy, it will be a referendum on ours as well.  Who is Kobe Bryant, basketball player?  Who are we, basketball fans?  And precisely how are those things connected?  I don't know yet, and neither do you.  Neither, maybe, does Kobe. 

But because this is sports and we love prognostications, go ahead.  Take your best guess.  

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.      

Super-Quick NBA Playoff Predictions.

We opened it like an extra present on Christmas day, and we closed it in an exhausted mess, face-down in a puddle of of tanking and chaos and nothing definitive whatsoever.  The 66-game endorphin-rush-cum-spastic-pinball-machine of this lockout-shortened atrocity is over now.  Oh, 2011-2012 NBA season, you will be missed.  Sort of.  When we look back in a few years, we'll be glancing over scatter-shot imagery too cloudy and compressed to discern anything beyond the barest snatches of memory.  Chris Paul is a Clipper.  Dwight Howard is a moron.  "World Peace" is a bad joke.  New York went Linsane for a hot minute.  We're all still in love with Kevin Durant.  Let's move on.

Actually, it's not quite that simplified, but that's how it feels as we count down the minutes to the Second Season.  Since that last sentence is literal in the sense that it is 12:10 PM EST as I type this and the playoffs tip off at 1:00, I'm going to quickly bang out some post-season prognostications before settling in for the ride.

Eastern Conference:

Chicago-Philly.  The Sixers were an endearing story this season, one of a few intriguing squads who eschewed the Alpha-dog Superstar in favor of team chemistry and hustle.  The sport what may be the league's best bench in the "Night Shift", and they can give opponents a variety of looks.  They don't have a prayer.  Even with D-Rose running at less than optimum, the Bulls are going to flatten this likeable Philly squad.  They torched opponents without their PG in the lineup, and even though he's been shaky in his return, Philly is going to be his personal tune-up as he plays back into form.

Bulls in 5.

Miami-New York.  I think the Knicks are going to put up one hell of a fight in this series.  Tyson Chandler is going to neutralize a fair bit of the Heat's penetration inside, and 'Melo is playing out of his brain of late.  STAT vs. Bosh will be interesting to watch, as will the lack of real PGs for either team.  In the end, though, I just don't see LBJ and Wade (even if he's not fully healthy) falling apart this early.

Heat in 6.

Indy-Orlando.  This Pacers team served notice last year when they gave the Bulls all they wanted in the playoffs, and they've only improved this season.  Given the fact that "Superman" will be a DNP: Clark Kent'd, this isn't close.  I honestly don't even see any close games coming in this one.

Pacers in 4.

Boston-Atlanta.  Everyone is whining about how crappy this series is going to be, but I'm actually kind of interested in this Battle Of The Out-Of-Position Bigs.  The C's have been forced to play KG at the 5 a ton, while the Hawks have survived the absence of Al Horford and Zaza Pachulia with the zombified corpses of Jason Collins and Eric Dampier.  Ray Allen is questionable health-wise, but Rondo will kill Jeff Teague.  Pierce and Joe Johnson will shoot each other into oblivion.  Atlanta is going to need huge minutes from Ivan Johnson and mistake-free awesomeness from J-Smoove and Marvin Williams to have a chance.  Doc Rivers' superior coaching, Avery Bradley's emerging prowess and KG's playoff-gear intensity are going to be the major factors for Boston.  This will be a grind and a question, pardon the cliche, of who wants it more.

Celtics in 7. 

Western Conference:

San Antonio-Utah.  The Jazz are a blast to watch.  Millsap, Jefferson, Hayward, and co. have coalesced into a very nice team, and a tip of the cap is in order for head coach Ty Corbin.  It's just that a bigger tip of a ten-gallon hat goes to Pop and the ageless-even-as-they-age-into-hoops-geezerdom Spurs.  Tony Parker just played his best season ever, Timmy and Manu are well-rested, and the S-Jax/Bonner/Leonard triumvirate of contribution goodness augmenting the Big 3 should be enough to power past a Jazz squad who, despite enjoying a huge frontcourt size advantage, aren't deep enough.

Spurs in 6.

OKC-Dallas.  Maybe this won't be the coronation ceremony Thunder fans have been waiting for, but knocking off the defending champs (who eliminated them in an epic series last year) would be a huge step for Durant, Westbrook, and friends.  James Harden has been medically cleared to play, but could be shaky in the early games.  Ibaka will be his usual block-factory self, and of course KD and Russ are going to go off huge.  For Dallas, Dirk will put up his usual insane stats, Jason Kidd will be solid, Jet will rain points off the bench, and Vince Carter and Delonte West may or may not do anything worth a damn.  The Mavs are far from that devil-may-care, momentum happy championship team of last season.  They're going to seriously miss Tyson Chandler's defensive anchorage and J.J. Barea's spark plug presence off the bench.  The torch is about to be passed, people.

Thunder in 7.

L.A.(1)-Denver.  Yet another thoroughly enjoyable team without a real star, the Nuggets have been one of my favorite viewing experiences of the season.  Sadly, they're about to run into the buzzsaw known as Kobe Bryant and Two Massive And Incredibly Talented Big Men.  Even with trade-deadline acquisition JaVale McGee, Denver simply doesn't have the size to handle Gasol and Bynum, and while they have a few guys (most notably Afflalo) who can slow The Mamba down a bit, we all know Kobe is a stone assassin and he'll win by sheer force of will if he has to.  Denver's one shot to steal a game or two is if Kenneth Faried plays out of his mind (don't rule this out) and their deeper bench can make up for the Kobe factor.  Ultimately, The Laker's experience and size will prove decisive.

Lakers in 5.

L.A.(2)-Memphis.  Toss Z-Bo, Marc Gasol, Blake Griffin, DeAndre Jordan, and pretty much everyone else out the window.  This entire series hinges on one thing:  Can Tony Allen stop Chris Paul?  Allen was essentially put on earth to lock people down defensively, and he does it with a single-mindedness we've rarely, if ever, witnessed before.  If he can put the clamps on the world's best point guard, the Clippers are going down.  Conversely, if CP3 has himself a series like he did against the Lakers last year (or something close to it), the Grizz will be on their couches in about ten days.  I say Paul does his thing in spite of a ferocious effort by Allen, and the Clips find playoff success for the first time since ... well it's been a looooooong time.

Clippers in 6.

Enjoy the playoffs everyone.