Night In A Car Alone: A Brief Rumination On Irrational Fandom.

Being fans is a fascinatingly irrational part of our daily lives.  Whether it's a psychopathic overreaction to Kristen Stewart cheating on Robert Pattinson (and seriously, have we come to this, people?) or going near-catatonic over a humiliating playoff loss (like I did after the Falcons' atrocious showing against the Giants last year), the idea that we would emotionally invest in people and their exploits with virtually zero reciprocity is counterintuitive to the point of foolishness.  We cede certain territories of our souls to the objects of our fandom, and ask that they keep those fiefdoms in good repair.  Sometimes they're kind enough to oblige.  More often, those little geographical soul-areas are left with the weeds choking out all other flora and covering over the dilapidated buildings.  And yet, we keep going back to the well. 

We do this because, especially in this age of internet unilateral consciousness cum digitized isolation, we badly need real-world affirmation.  The nod to the person on the street wearing the same ball cap we're wearing.  The high fives with the random people in the stadium or the sports bar after a big play.  Fandom, even the long-suffering variety, is a balm for the countless bruises we sustain on our hearts and minds because we can share it.  Perhaps especially when it's also the cause of said bruises.  This paragraph is overwrought and a dead-horse-beaten reprisal of a thousand just like it, but it's that way because it is rooted in truth.  Fandom matters because it imparts a fundamental sense of belonging to the fan.    

Of course, there are also the contradictory tendencies that come with devotion.  Most common and identifiable is the "player you hate now but would adore if they were traded to your team."  (Copyright: Bill Simmons.)  I mean, I'm fairly certain Cole Hamels is an irredeemable d-bag, but if I woke up tomorrow and he was miraculously on the Braves' playoff roster, I would go buy his jersey immediately.  (Obviously, there are exceptions for people like John Rocker.)  It really is incredible how the name on the front of the uniform can eradicate any negatives associated with the name on the back.

But this kind of thing is mostly harmless, and also falls into the shared experience category.  It's when you isolate us, when the act of rooting becomes a solitary thing, that the emotions that find release and reflection among our fellow fans turn inwards and can lead to the more illogical extremes of rooting.  When you can't vent with or express you opinions to other people about what's going on in the game, things can take a bizarre turn.  

Last night, I had possibly the most viscerally irrational moment of my sports fan life, and that, folks, is saying something.  

Here I was, alone, in a dark car at night.  After a ten-hour work day, all I wanted was to get home, crack a beer, catch the end of the Braves game, watch the second half of Bears/Cowboys, and go to bed.  Unfortunately, I was stuck in a torrential downpour of the sort that grinds traffic to a crawl because no one can see out of their windshield for the rain, creeping down 400 South at eight miles an hour.  So I was already tense and cranky.  On the radio, Don Sutton and Jim Powell were narrating as the Braves struggled to stage a late-inning rally on the Pirates.  Since the Nationals were losing to Philly, we still had a shot at the division.  We win out, they lose out, presto: NL East title. 

Now, here's where things got strange in my interior fan dialogue.  (Or, you know, sad.)  Instead of getting upset at our anemic bats for failing to get anyone across the plate, I became absolutely furious at the Pirates.  Their season, after all, is over.  These last few games are a formality as they stagger to another sub-.500 finish, when even a month ago their playoff hopes were so vividly alive.  They don't have any dignity to play for.  Sid Bream took it with him when he left the visitors' clubhouse in Three Rivers Stadium in '92, and it hasn't been back since.  There was nothing in this game for Pittsburgh ... so why didn't the bastards have the decency to roll over and lose?  Why did they insist on fucking up our season?  Why?!?!?!  I started muttering snide and petulant asides every time a Pirates batter stepped into the box.  "I bet your OPS is terrible, Josh Harrison.  I've never even heard of you.  And you're probably lousy at Scrabble, too."  I was trying to be funny for the audience in my empty passenger seat, but I swear to Craig Kimbrel, there was real vitriol behind every thought and word.  For whatever reason, I simply could not fathom why the Bucs wouldn't lay down and die, and it incensed me with rage.

Two things about this: First, it is likely better for the Braves that we lost last night.  We can rest Chipper, Mac, Prado, and anyone else who needs a breather.  We can set the postseason rotation.  We can focus on scouting the Cardinals as fully as possible.  We can take a beat, let the kids on the bench get some time without it being critical, and see where they're at.  Tactically, this is a superior position to mad-sprinting and nail-biting our way towards an almost certainly unattainable division title.  And I knew that last night.  I knew losing that game would probably be better for the Braves in terms of the postseason, yet I still desperately wanted us to win that game.     

And second, why on earth should I want or expect the Pirates to just give up?  Truthfully, I'm afflicted by far more saccharine sentimentality than a proper 21st-Century sports writer ought to have.  I confess that to a great extent, I love all the "spirit of competition" and "majesty of sport" and "triumph of human will" jazz that gets spouted in the form of tacky aphorisms by certain ESPN personalities or in the pages of SI.  The thought of striving in the face of long odds or playing out the string for the love of the game fills me with warm fuzzies.  (Yes, I am a sap.)  In any other circumstance, I'm sure I would have thought the Pirates quite noble for playing hard even in the ashes and wreckage of another lousy September, made all the worse because things looked so promising for so long this year.  

But I didn't.  I was just pissed that these clowns were actually trying.  Again: I ascribed zero blame to the Braves' hitters who kept leaving runners stranded on base; it was all on the opposition for actually, well, opposing us.  And it occurred to me that I would never have felt this way if we were playing, say, the Brewers.  Because Milwaukee has been a pretty good ball club these past few seasons.  It was the notion of a lesser team, a weaker team, having the gall to step into our path.  In a brief moment of utter madness, I had become a bourgeois fan.  I felt entitled to my team stomping all over someone else purely because they were supposed to.  God help me, I'd turned into a Yankees fan.

I have no idea what possessed me.  Normally, I'm passionate but not irrational in my fandom, and not prone to these sorts of bile-fueled funks.  For whatever reason, last night set me off.  My neural pathways were shorted out, and temporarily replaced with idiocy.  Being a fan is strange that way, sometimes. 

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.