Sunday, May 15, 2011
Problems
Apparently Blogger is nine kinds of stupid right now. Please ignore that last post until I can fix it to post correctly. Thank you.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
"Stacking Chairs and Mopping Up Spilt Beer."
It's become a tradition with me over the past decade or so to make an annual New Year's Eve playlist. You should know that I do this in an obsessive fashion; like, "High Fidelity" super-geek obsessive. I believe fervently that the art of the mix tape* is a subtle and delicate craft, and like all dedicated craftspeople, I take a single-minded pride in getting it right. The process takes hours. Deciding on what makes the cut. Listening to transitions between tracks over and over again, manipulating the order until the pacing and flow feels natural. It's a labor of love.
I have a few unimpeachable ground rules for this process:
1. The tape always starts with Joni Mitchell's "The Circle Game." It's a perfect New Year's tune, and as the mellowest thing on what is intended to be a party mix, it sets the threshold low, so you can elevate tempo and rock'n'roll-ness from there.
2. After Joni bats leadoff, I try to confine things mostly to songs released in the previous year. An homage to all the great new bands and tunes and albums that have filtered across the landscape since the last time I constructed this mix.
3. Rule # 2 is broken at about 10 minutes to midnight. There are three closers who have the championship belts in their weight classes, and they're not likely to be K.O.'d anytime soon. At 11:50 PM, Billy Bragg's "Waiting For The Great Leap Forward" kicks on. It's a great song, full of lament over the past and ambitious plans for the future, just perfect for the moment, really. After that finishes, I shut things down, allowing for everyone to get their champagne ready, watch the ball drop, and do the countdown thing. After everyone screams "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" and kisses whomever they're going to kiss, we launch immediately into Jimi Hendrix's version of "Auld Lang Syne" from the Fillmore concerts. Because it's awesome. That's followed by REM's "It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)". Bit of a cliched selection, I know, but it's never out of style and everyone loves to drunkenly pretend they know all the words and shamelessly belt out the chorus.
Of those three closing tracks, "Waiting For The Great Leap Forward" is probably my favorite. It's such a poignant, hopeful song. It's about change. It's about revolution. And that makes it perfect for a quotable tribute to this year's NBA playoffs. We've seen some truly unbelievable basketball these past few weeks. Really, it's been a joy to watch. But the theme that looms largest, the overarching story, is the generational power shift taking place before our eyes. The Spurs, Lakers, and Celtics are relinquishing their decade-long reign of dominance. The Thunder, Grizzlies, Bulls and (possibly) Knicks are ascending. The Mavericks are seeking redemption and redefinition. The Hawks, Blazers, Hornets, Magic, 76ers, Nuggets and Pacers submitted noble but ultimately futile efforts. And of course, as has been the case all year, all eyes are on the Miami Heat, whose future is unfolding as well as could be expected, but that team will be judged on a very simplistic basis: Title or bust. There's so much to take in, it's a good thing I have a fiver-verse epic to apply to the situation. (Did I "steal" the quotes gimmick from Bill Simmons? Kind of, I guess, but he tends to utilize awesome/iconic TV shows and movies. I prefer to roll with awesome/iconic songs. We're probably both better when we're in our wheelhouses.)
So, ladies and gents, please allow the great Billy Bragg to sum these playoffs team by team, using every line (in order) from one of the finest tunes ever penned.
"It may have been Camelot for Jack and Jacqueline
But on the Che Guevara highway filling up with gasoline"
For the San Antonio Spurs. They've had a decade-plus run just about as idyllic as is gets. 4 rings, stars, greatness; they continued to compete, and win, as the NBA went through myriad permutations and styles of play. The Admiral. Gregg Popovich. Manu. Tony Parker. And the greatest power forward in NBA history in Tim Duncan. They were always the consummate team, always classy, decorous, and gracious. The perfect example of team basketball at its finest, they valued defensive effort and the extra pass more highly than everyone else. It makes me a little sad to see them come down like this. In round 1, Memphis filled their highway up with gasoline, then struck a match. They just didn't have the juice, despite some of the most heroic late-game play in recent memory. A tip of the cap to my favorite team of the 2000s.
"Fidel Castro's brother spies a rich lady who's crying
Over luxury's disappointment so he walks over and he's trying
To sympathize with her but thinks that he should warn her
That the Third World is just around the corner"
For the Denver Nuggets and New York Knicks. Carmelo's trade saga certainly qualified as "luxury's disappointment", as does NYC's ultimately settling for the ill-fitting pieces of STAT and 'Melo as opposed to LeBron. In the end, both teams got what they thought what they wanted. Unfortunately, the Third World was just around the corner, in the form of inglorious first-round exits. I sympathize with Denver for what they lost, and the Knicks fans for what they perceived to be an immediate ticket to a ring. In reality, both teams still have a lot of work to do before they can contend seriously. How this plays out will have to wait for another season or two, assuming we have a season at all next year.
"In the Soviet Union a scientist is blinded
By the resumption of nuclear testing and he is reminded
That Dr Robert Oppenheimer's optimism fell
At the first hurdle"
For the Indiana Pacers, Portland Trail Blazers, and Philadelphia 76ers. Indy played the Bulls about as tough as could be expected, holding leads for every chunk of game clock except the ones that mattered. Their devoid-of-heavies cast played gritty defense and knocked down big shots only to collapse down the stretch. Philly came out of the gate strong in a few games as well, but couldn't withstand the onslaught of 'Bron and D-Wade when they got rolling. Portland had some throwback heroics from Brandon Roy, and they played as hard as they could, but the Mavs were simply better. The lower seeds always come into the postseason spouting the same predictable "we deserve to be here, we can play with these guys" spiel, but so often, as was the case for these two teams, optimism indeed fell at the first hurdle.
"In the Cheese Pavilion and the only noise I hear
Is the sound of people stacking chairs
And mopping up spilt beer"
For the Boston Celtics. Despite Doc Rivers returning, and the "Big Three" still coming back next year, this did look like closing time in the C's late-aughts saloon. Management is stacking the bars tools, mopping up the beer, and pronouncing last rites over this team, as evidenced by the possibly premature, looking-towards-the-future Perkins trade. KG, The Truth, and Allen aren't getting any younger. It's probably time to start seriously contemplating a rebuilding process centered around Rajon Rondo.
"And someone asking questions and basking in the light
Of the fifteen fame-filled minutes of the fanzine writer"
For the Atlanta Hawks. Fifteen fame-filled minutes are about all Atlanta's recent playoff runs have bought them. They're a cute also-ran; fringe contenders that no one actually perceives as a serious threat. Even last season, when people started talking about them as a potential fourth power in the Eastern Conference, their disjointed play and humiliating sweep at the hands of the Magic put that momentum to bed with a resounding thud. So much talent, so little coherence. They got two good things out of this year's run: revenge on the Magic, and the knowledge that Jeff Teague can play. Otherwise, things still look much like they have in years past.
"Mixing Pop and Politics he asks me what the use is
I offer him embarrassment and my usual excuses
While looking down the corridor
Out to where the van is waiting
I'm looking for the Great Leap Forwards"
For the Orlando Magic and New Orleans Hornets. Both teams had the best players in their respective first-round series. (Yes, I think CP3, at this point, is better than Kobe.) Both put up strong fights, but the lack of help from any semblance of supporting casts (David West's injury and Orlando's 3-point snipers failing to show up) meant early exits for both. The usual excuses. Now both teams are very much looking down the corridor, as their centerpieces approach free agency with little incentive to stay with their current organizations.
"Jumble sales are organized and pamphlets have been posted
Even after closing time there's still parties to be hosted
You can be active with the activists
Or sleep in with the sleepers
While you're waiting for the Great Leap Forwards"
For the Dallas Mavericks. Everyone thought their closing time happened in that dismal stretch from the '06 finals to the '07 playoff exit. But the Mavs are still hosting a party. Years, of "soft" reputations, early eliminations, and postseason ghosts are being eliminated before our eyes. After sleeping in with the sleepers for so long, Dirk and Co. couldn't look more activist-y these days. If they maintain their current level of play, their great leap forwards might very well end in some shiny new rings.
"One leap forwards, two leaps back
Will politics get me the sack?
Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards
Here comes the future and you can't run from it
If you've got a blacklist I want to be on itFor the Miami Heat. This lyric really should have bee their 2010-2011 slogan. After "The Decision" and that ludicrous welcome party/celebration/coronation before they'd won a single game together, the Heat were as close to a political sack with opposing fans as it's possible to get. But they embraced the hate and used the resulting conflagration of fans' ire and media criticism as a forge, emerging at the end of the season as a dangerous, solidified unit. (Granted they have no bench, no PG, and Joel Anthony protecting the rim, but still.) They have apparently become the future the league can't run from, and as long as their success continues, they don't care whose blacklist they're on.
"Well It's a mighty long way down rock 'n roll
From Top of the Pops to drawing the dole"**
For the Los Angeles Lakers. A translation of Mr. Bragg's British-ness here:
I have a few unimpeachable ground rules for this process:
1. The tape always starts with Joni Mitchell's "The Circle Game." It's a perfect New Year's tune, and as the mellowest thing on what is intended to be a party mix, it sets the threshold low, so you can elevate tempo and rock'n'roll-ness from there.
2. After Joni bats leadoff, I try to confine things mostly to songs released in the previous year. An homage to all the great new bands and tunes and albums that have filtered across the landscape since the last time I constructed this mix.
3. Rule # 2 is broken at about 10 minutes to midnight. There are three closers who have the championship belts in their weight classes, and they're not likely to be K.O.'d anytime soon. At 11:50 PM, Billy Bragg's "Waiting For The Great Leap Forward" kicks on. It's a great song, full of lament over the past and ambitious plans for the future, just perfect for the moment, really. After that finishes, I shut things down, allowing for everyone to get their champagne ready, watch the ball drop, and do the countdown thing. After everyone screams "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" and kisses whomever they're going to kiss, we launch immediately into Jimi Hendrix's version of "Auld Lang Syne" from the Fillmore concerts. Because it's awesome. That's followed by REM's "It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)". Bit of a cliched selection, I know, but it's never out of style and everyone loves to drunkenly pretend they know all the words and shamelessly belt out the chorus.
Of those three closing tracks, "Waiting For The Great Leap Forward" is probably my favorite. It's such a poignant, hopeful song. It's about change. It's about revolution. And that makes it perfect for a quotable tribute to this year's NBA playoffs. We've seen some truly unbelievable basketball these past few weeks. Really, it's been a joy to watch. But the theme that looms largest, the overarching story, is the generational power shift taking place before our eyes. The Spurs, Lakers, and Celtics are relinquishing their decade-long reign of dominance. The Thunder, Grizzlies, Bulls and (possibly) Knicks are ascending. The Mavericks are seeking redemption and redefinition. The Hawks, Blazers, Hornets, Magic, 76ers, Nuggets and Pacers submitted noble but ultimately futile efforts. And of course, as has been the case all year, all eyes are on the Miami Heat, whose future is unfolding as well as could be expected, but that team will be judged on a very simplistic basis: Title or bust. There's so much to take in, it's a good thing I have a fiver-verse epic to apply to the situation. (Did I "steal" the quotes gimmick from Bill Simmons? Kind of, I guess, but he tends to utilize awesome/iconic TV shows and movies. I prefer to roll with awesome/iconic songs. We're probably both better when we're in our wheelhouses.)
So, ladies and gents, please allow the great Billy Bragg to sum these playoffs team by team, using every line (in order) from one of the finest tunes ever penned.
"It may have been Camelot for Jack and Jacqueline
But on the Che Guevara highway filling up with gasoline"
For the San Antonio Spurs. They've had a decade-plus run just about as idyllic as is gets. 4 rings, stars, greatness; they continued to compete, and win, as the NBA went through myriad permutations and styles of play. The Admiral. Gregg Popovich. Manu. Tony Parker. And the greatest power forward in NBA history in Tim Duncan. They were always the consummate team, always classy, decorous, and gracious. The perfect example of team basketball at its finest, they valued defensive effort and the extra pass more highly than everyone else. It makes me a little sad to see them come down like this. In round 1, Memphis filled their highway up with gasoline, then struck a match. They just didn't have the juice, despite some of the most heroic late-game play in recent memory. A tip of the cap to my favorite team of the 2000s.
"Fidel Castro's brother spies a rich lady who's crying
Over luxury's disappointment so he walks over and he's trying
To sympathize with her but thinks that he should warn her
That the Third World is just around the corner"
For the Denver Nuggets and New York Knicks. Carmelo's trade saga certainly qualified as "luxury's disappointment", as does NYC's ultimately settling for the ill-fitting pieces of STAT and 'Melo as opposed to LeBron. In the end, both teams got what they thought what they wanted. Unfortunately, the Third World was just around the corner, in the form of inglorious first-round exits. I sympathize with Denver for what they lost, and the Knicks fans for what they perceived to be an immediate ticket to a ring. In reality, both teams still have a lot of work to do before they can contend seriously. How this plays out will have to wait for another season or two, assuming we have a season at all next year.
"In the Soviet Union a scientist is blinded
By the resumption of nuclear testing and he is reminded
That Dr Robert Oppenheimer's optimism fell
At the first hurdle"
For the Indiana Pacers, Portland Trail Blazers, and Philadelphia 76ers. Indy played the Bulls about as tough as could be expected, holding leads for every chunk of game clock except the ones that mattered. Their devoid-of-heavies cast played gritty defense and knocked down big shots only to collapse down the stretch. Philly came out of the gate strong in a few games as well, but couldn't withstand the onslaught of 'Bron and D-Wade when they got rolling. Portland had some throwback heroics from Brandon Roy, and they played as hard as they could, but the Mavs were simply better. The lower seeds always come into the postseason spouting the same predictable "we deserve to be here, we can play with these guys" spiel, but so often, as was the case for these two teams, optimism indeed fell at the first hurdle.
"In the Cheese Pavilion and the only noise I hear
Is the sound of people stacking chairs
And mopping up spilt beer"
For the Boston Celtics. Despite Doc Rivers returning, and the "Big Three" still coming back next year, this did look like closing time in the C's late-aughts saloon. Management is stacking the bars tools, mopping up the beer, and pronouncing last rites over this team, as evidenced by the possibly premature, looking-towards-the-future Perkins trade. KG, The Truth, and Allen aren't getting any younger. It's probably time to start seriously contemplating a rebuilding process centered around Rajon Rondo.
"And someone asking questions and basking in the light
Of the fifteen fame-filled minutes of the fanzine writer"
For the Atlanta Hawks. Fifteen fame-filled minutes are about all Atlanta's recent playoff runs have bought them. They're a cute also-ran; fringe contenders that no one actually perceives as a serious threat. Even last season, when people started talking about them as a potential fourth power in the Eastern Conference, their disjointed play and humiliating sweep at the hands of the Magic put that momentum to bed with a resounding thud. So much talent, so little coherence. They got two good things out of this year's run: revenge on the Magic, and the knowledge that Jeff Teague can play. Otherwise, things still look much like they have in years past.
"Mixing Pop and Politics he asks me what the use is
I offer him embarrassment and my usual excuses
While looking down the corridor
Out to where the van is waiting
I'm looking for the Great Leap Forwards"
For the Orlando Magic and New Orleans Hornets. Both teams had the best players in their respective first-round series. (Yes, I think CP3, at this point, is better than Kobe.) Both put up strong fights, but the lack of help from any semblance of supporting casts (David West's injury and Orlando's 3-point snipers failing to show up) meant early exits for both. The usual excuses. Now both teams are very much looking down the corridor, as their centerpieces approach free agency with little incentive to stay with their current organizations.
"Jumble sales are organized and pamphlets have been posted
Even after closing time there's still parties to be hosted
You can be active with the activists
Or sleep in with the sleepers
While you're waiting for the Great Leap Forwards"
For the Dallas Mavericks. Everyone thought their closing time happened in that dismal stretch from the '06 finals to the '07 playoff exit. But the Mavs are still hosting a party. Years, of "soft" reputations, early eliminations, and postseason ghosts are being eliminated before our eyes. After sleeping in with the sleepers for so long, Dirk and Co. couldn't look more activist-y these days. If they maintain their current level of play, their great leap forwards might very well end in some shiny new rings.
"One leap forwards, two leaps back
Will politics get me the sack?
Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards
Here comes the future and you can't run from it
If you've got a blacklist I want to be on itFor the Miami Heat. This lyric really should have bee their 2010-2011 slogan. After "The Decision" and that ludicrous welcome party/celebration/coronation before they'd won a single game together, the Heat were as close to a political sack with opposing fans as it's possible to get. But they embraced the hate and used the resulting conflagration of fans' ire and media criticism as a forge, emerging at the end of the season as a dangerous, solidified unit. (Granted they have no bench, no PG, and Joel Anthony protecting the rim, but still.) They have apparently become the future the league can't run from, and as long as their success continues, they don't care whose blacklist they're on.
"Well It's a mighty long way down rock 'n roll
From Top of the Pops to drawing the dole"**
For the Los Angeles Lakers. A translation of Mr. Bragg's British-ness here:
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Different Trains, Same Track
Kobe Bryant and Tiger Woods should get together for drinks sometime soon. I'd guess they have an awful lot of common ground to fuel the discussion. The alpha dogs of sport share an understanding about the pressures and rewards of greatness that the rest of us can only guess at, and they no doubt relish trading war stories and recollections of triumph and laughing at us mere mortals. However, in the case of Kobe and Tiger, they have something specific to mull over together; a shared issue that goes beyond any of the obvious analogs we might draw. Here's what that issue is not:
It's not that they're both transcendent athletes on the decline. They are, but the reasons for that are vastly different. Kobe is simply wearing down. The human body degenerates over time, and that process is greatly accelerated for a man who has, over the course of his career, put a ridiculous amount of miles on his NBA odometer. Year after year of endless 82-game seasons, deep playoff runs, Team USA stints, and summers in the gym religiously adding tools to his game are finally taking their toll. His body simply cannot do what once it could. It's the end all athletes eventually share.
Willing but not able.
But he's still Kobe. He's not done being dangerous yet.
With Tiger, it's the antithesis of that tale. His regression is a purely mental thing. (As Bubba Watson recently had the guts to opine publicly.) All the swing doctoring and the putting woes are the result of his infidelities, that fateful Thanksgiving night, and the ensuing conflagration of personal crisis and media scrutiny. The inherent ability is still there, but the locked-in, laser focus and confidence we grew so accustomed to in the past are gone, or at least greatly reduced. Once that mental knife is dulled, it takes a hell of a whet stone to resharpen the blade.
Able but not willing.
But he's still Tiger. He's not done being dangerous yet.
It's also not about their pursuits of certain goals which would further their legacies and alter the way we view them historically. Jordan's rings. Nicklaus' Majors. That angle has been played to death. Rehashing it again would be as boring as an uncontested layup, as banal as a tap-in for par. It's there, but if they're putting back a few cold ones together, it's not what they should be discussing.
No, what Tiger and Kobe share most acutely right now has little to do with their intrinsic qualities as athletes. They're not what they once were, but they still pose sizable threats to opponents. "Not in his prime" does not automatically mean "not incredibly good anymore," just "slightly less incredibly good." And it has nothing to do with the implications of their respective statuses as compared to their greatest predecessors. At this moment, it's the perceptions of those who compete against them that are the pressing matter.
In chess, if you know the game, you can ascertain fairly quickly how skilled your opponent is. It's not just about their opening ten or so moves on the board. You watch the eyes, the body language. How deliberate and measured are they? How much time do they take to react? You synthesize everything you learn about the player, and in a short space of time, you know what you're up against. And if you determine that they're much better than you, that they're on another level, a funny thing happens to your own game. You start playing not to win, but (pardon the cliche) not to lose. Or worse, not to get your clock thoroughly cleaned. Moves you would have been confident in under different circumstances suddenly require second and third guesses. You're constantly worried they know something you don't, that everything you do is eliciting a secret grin in the back of their mind. Most of the time, you end up beating yourself, and all they have to do is sit back and wait to declare a checkmate.
That used to be anybody and everybody that had to go up against Tiger and Kobe. Those two used to a Bobby Fisher mental edge. If player X was coming down the back nine on Sunday with a four stroke lead and Tiger was in the pairing behind him, those four strokes seemed like nothing. Inevitably, the roar would go up, and player X would know: Tiger just did something incredible. He's making his move. And more likely than not, the leader would break. He'd sweat bullets and shank drives and push puts and fall apart. Just because Tiger was back there. Just because he existed. Same for Kobe. It didn't matter if the Lakers were down 15 or if the game was close, opposing fans and players and coaches held their breaths and waited. And Kobe hit a few big shots. And the other team's shoulders sagged a little bit. We can't beat this guy. He's got the angry-glare bulldog face going. He's in Mamba mode. The psychological ramifications were incredible to watch. Imagine the ability to demoralize, intimidate, and strike abject terror into the hearts of your foes just because you're YOU. How many victories have Kobe and Tiger racked up over the years, even if they weren't playing particularly well, just because the guys facing them were terrified of getting whupped, and that fear itself got them whupped? That's what's gone. That's what's missing. The skills have nothing to do with it.
You could see it at The Masters these past two years. Augusta National has been Tiger's course since he joined the tour. It's his sanctuary, his home-court advantage, his perfect battleground. And even there, nobody in the field was worried about him. He's still a great and immensely skilled golfer, but you didn't see guys stealing glances at the leader board on his account. If they had deer-in-headlights expressions, it was because it's The Masters and there's no higher-pressure situation in golf than being in the hunt in that tournament on a Sunday. It wasn't one man, wearing red, bearing down on them, inexorably and inevitably poised to snatch a green jacket from their hands at the last minute. It didn't matter that Tiger easily could have done that if a few more puts had dropped here or there; they didn't think or believe he could anymore, and that made all the difference.
Kobe's issues are more recent. Like, last week recent. If any team was a prime candidate to fall victim to the lore of the Black Mamba, it was the Dallas Mavericks. They already had a freighter's worth of playoff baggage, of early exits and phantoms and "soft" reputations. You'd think they'd have taken one look across the floor at Kobe Bean Bryant late in that first game, and quailed in fear. But the Mavs didn't care. They weren't buying it. It was written clearly on their faces. "Go on, let's see it. Close us out if you can." They weren't intimidated one bit. Hell, they weren't even an iota of nervous. And when the game clock hit zero after that game 4 beatdown on Sunday, the rest of the NBA knew it too. The league collectively turned into the trainer in Rocky IV. "SEE?!?!? HE'S NOT A MACHINE! HE'S A MAN!" The fear was simply gone.
Of all the things Kobe and Tiger have in common, that's the most recent and most important development. They used to be titans. Now, in the eyes of their opponents, they're mere mortals. Very, very talented mortals, but fallible and beatable nonetheless.
It's not that they're both transcendent athletes on the decline. They are, but the reasons for that are vastly different. Kobe is simply wearing down. The human body degenerates over time, and that process is greatly accelerated for a man who has, over the course of his career, put a ridiculous amount of miles on his NBA odometer. Year after year of endless 82-game seasons, deep playoff runs, Team USA stints, and summers in the gym religiously adding tools to his game are finally taking their toll. His body simply cannot do what once it could. It's the end all athletes eventually share.
Willing but not able.
But he's still Kobe. He's not done being dangerous yet.
With Tiger, it's the antithesis of that tale. His regression is a purely mental thing. (As Bubba Watson recently had the guts to opine publicly.) All the swing doctoring and the putting woes are the result of his infidelities, that fateful Thanksgiving night, and the ensuing conflagration of personal crisis and media scrutiny. The inherent ability is still there, but the locked-in, laser focus and confidence we grew so accustomed to in the past are gone, or at least greatly reduced. Once that mental knife is dulled, it takes a hell of a whet stone to resharpen the blade.
Able but not willing.
But he's still Tiger. He's not done being dangerous yet.
It's also not about their pursuits of certain goals which would further their legacies and alter the way we view them historically. Jordan's rings. Nicklaus' Majors. That angle has been played to death. Rehashing it again would be as boring as an uncontested layup, as banal as a tap-in for par. It's there, but if they're putting back a few cold ones together, it's not what they should be discussing.
No, what Tiger and Kobe share most acutely right now has little to do with their intrinsic qualities as athletes. They're not what they once were, but they still pose sizable threats to opponents. "Not in his prime" does not automatically mean "not incredibly good anymore," just "slightly less incredibly good." And it has nothing to do with the implications of their respective statuses as compared to their greatest predecessors. At this moment, it's the perceptions of those who compete against them that are the pressing matter.
In chess, if you know the game, you can ascertain fairly quickly how skilled your opponent is. It's not just about their opening ten or so moves on the board. You watch the eyes, the body language. How deliberate and measured are they? How much time do they take to react? You synthesize everything you learn about the player, and in a short space of time, you know what you're up against. And if you determine that they're much better than you, that they're on another level, a funny thing happens to your own game. You start playing not to win, but (pardon the cliche) not to lose. Or worse, not to get your clock thoroughly cleaned. Moves you would have been confident in under different circumstances suddenly require second and third guesses. You're constantly worried they know something you don't, that everything you do is eliciting a secret grin in the back of their mind. Most of the time, you end up beating yourself, and all they have to do is sit back and wait to declare a checkmate.
That used to be anybody and everybody that had to go up against Tiger and Kobe. Those two used to a Bobby Fisher mental edge. If player X was coming down the back nine on Sunday with a four stroke lead and Tiger was in the pairing behind him, those four strokes seemed like nothing. Inevitably, the roar would go up, and player X would know: Tiger just did something incredible. He's making his move. And more likely than not, the leader would break. He'd sweat bullets and shank drives and push puts and fall apart. Just because Tiger was back there. Just because he existed. Same for Kobe. It didn't matter if the Lakers were down 15 or if the game was close, opposing fans and players and coaches held their breaths and waited. And Kobe hit a few big shots. And the other team's shoulders sagged a little bit. We can't beat this guy. He's got the angry-glare bulldog face going. He's in Mamba mode. The psychological ramifications were incredible to watch. Imagine the ability to demoralize, intimidate, and strike abject terror into the hearts of your foes just because you're YOU. How many victories have Kobe and Tiger racked up over the years, even if they weren't playing particularly well, just because the guys facing them were terrified of getting whupped, and that fear itself got them whupped? That's what's gone. That's what's missing. The skills have nothing to do with it.
You could see it at The Masters these past two years. Augusta National has been Tiger's course since he joined the tour. It's his sanctuary, his home-court advantage, his perfect battleground. And even there, nobody in the field was worried about him. He's still a great and immensely skilled golfer, but you didn't see guys stealing glances at the leader board on his account. If they had deer-in-headlights expressions, it was because it's The Masters and there's no higher-pressure situation in golf than being in the hunt in that tournament on a Sunday. It wasn't one man, wearing red, bearing down on them, inexorably and inevitably poised to snatch a green jacket from their hands at the last minute. It didn't matter that Tiger easily could have done that if a few more puts had dropped here or there; they didn't think or believe he could anymore, and that made all the difference.
Kobe's issues are more recent. Like, last week recent. If any team was a prime candidate to fall victim to the lore of the Black Mamba, it was the Dallas Mavericks. They already had a freighter's worth of playoff baggage, of early exits and phantoms and "soft" reputations. You'd think they'd have taken one look across the floor at Kobe Bean Bryant late in that first game, and quailed in fear. But the Mavs didn't care. They weren't buying it. It was written clearly on their faces. "Go on, let's see it. Close us out if you can." They weren't intimidated one bit. Hell, they weren't even an iota of nervous. And when the game clock hit zero after that game 4 beatdown on Sunday, the rest of the NBA knew it too. The league collectively turned into the trainer in Rocky IV. "SEE?!?!? HE'S NOT A MACHINE! HE'S A MAN!" The fear was simply gone.
Of all the things Kobe and Tiger have in common, that's the most recent and most important development. They used to be titans. Now, in the eyes of their opponents, they're mere mortals. Very, very talented mortals, but fallible and beatable nonetheless.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Satellite Imaging.
It's been a staple in every CIA/spy-thriller movie for the past two decades. A higher-up walks into a room filled with people hunched over computer terminals. The worker bees are perusing their various screens, which presumably are dripping with important data. At some point, one of the analyst drones flags down The Boss:
"Sir, you're gonna want to see this."
The Boss approaches and, squinting, leans over the analyst's shoulder. The screen invariably displays some type of grainy video footage or satellite image.
"Ok," says The Boss. "Tell me what I'm looking at here."
The analyst launches into a diatribe about whatever distant recon outpost relayed the info, and a synopsis of whatever malicious intrigue the bad guys are plotting.
"My God," says The Boss, and hustles out of the room.
Cut to a shot of the computer screen frozen on a sinister image.
And ... scene.
Russell Westbrook's late-game performance (fourth quarter and all the subesquent madness) in last night's eventual triple-OT Thunder victory over the Griz is that frozen, sinister image. A great deal has been written about Westbrook's poor decision making since these playoffs began. There have been questions raised about whether his ego is proving corrosive to OKC's locker room. After all, these are the darlings of the league, the carefully-assembled, up-and-coming Brady Bunch of talent and chemistry. He's been lambasted because you simply can't play that way when you also have Kevin Durant on the floor; it's not a smart or efficient path to victory. Most nights, anyway. And he's been defended with a vigor equal to that of his detractors because Memphis' defenders, especially Tony Allen and Shane Battier, have done an outstanding job of denying Durant position and touches. After all, if your primary scoring option is being taken out of play that stringently, what can you do, right? Plus, at 22, he's still figuring it all out, and he's having to do so in the midst of a dogfight playoff series, so perhaps a little slack ought to be cut his way. As is often the case, both arguments carry good amounts of weight, and both have their flaws as well. That end (and the end and the end and the end after that) of the game? That was a different breed of perturbing tendencies.
When the Thunder made a run to get back into what looked like a Memphis blowout in the second and third quarters, Westbrook was driving the steamroller. As well he should have. After only three FG attempts in the opening frame, Russ apparently sized up the situation and decided he needed to be more assertive. It was the correct decision. The Thunder need Russ to contribute big for them to be successful, and with the game slipping precariously close to out of reach, it was an opportune moment for him to step up. So he dialed himself in and went to work, getting to the rack and the line over and over again. To be sure, there were some ill-advised shots littered throughout his performance, but he was the major catalyst in OKC's rally. And then came the damning fourth period.
Better writers than I have detailed Westbrook's poor (read: non-existent) passing down the stretch in game three. He was clearly trying to do too much, to be "The Man" when that role clearly ought to be filled by Durant. It was a terrible display of selfish basketball, and not the first time we've seen it from Russ. One wonders whether all the hype he garnered starting with his Team USA performance this past summer and continuing over the season simply ballooned his head to a toxic degree. (Actually, the wondering is pretty much done.) OKC coach Scott Brooks had assured the media that a team film session and conversation had settled the problem. Obviously, that wasn't the case. But this wasn't just about a refusal to distribute the rock to his teammates, and Durant in particular. I'm willing to partially exonerate that behavior if Memphis has the clamps on KD; especially on a night like last night, when Westbrook had done so much to get his team back in the game. Maybe he knew he was rolling and decided to call his own hot-handed number. Maybe he felt he'd earned the right to close it out. It wasn't necessarily the smartest way to go, but I can understand his having those sentiments.
Russ' problem last night wasn't staying in "hero mode." If he wanted it, well, it doesn't always have to be Durant closing down the stretch. (Though Westbrook could better serve his team by ensuring that happens a good bit more in the future than it has recently.) The problem was the stagnation and ... hesitation isn't the right word, but the something Russ was doing or, more accurately, not doing. Too often late in the game, the shot clock determined the play. Memphis was playing good D, but they were pretty clearly gassed. If Westbrook was going to keep the ball in his own hands, he needed to do something with it. It seemed like he just sat at the top of the key, possession after possession, dribbling. And dribbling. And looking around the floor ... and dribbling some more, while the seconds ticked inexorably down. It had to be terrifying for Thunder fans to watch as their team did pretty much nothing at all for chunks of clock. Was he waiting for plays that never materialized, or taking too long to gauge the situation, or just plain despondent? He certainly wasn't too tired, because he continued to make drives, successful ones, but only after the shot clock was inching towards zero. Part of this has to fall at Scott Brooks' feet, because he should have taken one look at how exhausted the Griz were and ordered his team to dive bomb them at the rim, but it's Russ' job on the floor to make things happen. The Thunder won, and Westbrook's 40 points were certainly impressive, but those passive, clock-eating trips down the floor were not something to jump for joy over. I believe Westbrook will be come a better, less-selfish passer. I believe OKC needed him last night to do what he did. I believe that he had earned the right to have the game in his hands in the crucial moments. But those aimless, desolate stretches of inaction were strange and unpleasant to witness. A gold farthing to anyone who can tell me what was going on there.
"OK, tell me what I'm looking at."
"Sir, you're gonna want to see this."
The Boss approaches and, squinting, leans over the analyst's shoulder. The screen invariably displays some type of grainy video footage or satellite image.
"Ok," says The Boss. "Tell me what I'm looking at here."
The analyst launches into a diatribe about whatever distant recon outpost relayed the info, and a synopsis of whatever malicious intrigue the bad guys are plotting.
"My God," says The Boss, and hustles out of the room.
Cut to a shot of the computer screen frozen on a sinister image.
And ... scene.
Russell Westbrook's late-game performance (fourth quarter and all the subesquent madness) in last night's eventual triple-OT Thunder victory over the Griz is that frozen, sinister image. A great deal has been written about Westbrook's poor decision making since these playoffs began. There have been questions raised about whether his ego is proving corrosive to OKC's locker room. After all, these are the darlings of the league, the carefully-assembled, up-and-coming Brady Bunch of talent and chemistry. He's been lambasted because you simply can't play that way when you also have Kevin Durant on the floor; it's not a smart or efficient path to victory. Most nights, anyway. And he's been defended with a vigor equal to that of his detractors because Memphis' defenders, especially Tony Allen and Shane Battier, have done an outstanding job of denying Durant position and touches. After all, if your primary scoring option is being taken out of play that stringently, what can you do, right? Plus, at 22, he's still figuring it all out, and he's having to do so in the midst of a dogfight playoff series, so perhaps a little slack ought to be cut his way. As is often the case, both arguments carry good amounts of weight, and both have their flaws as well. That end (and the end and the end and the end after that) of the game? That was a different breed of perturbing tendencies.
When the Thunder made a run to get back into what looked like a Memphis blowout in the second and third quarters, Westbrook was driving the steamroller. As well he should have. After only three FG attempts in the opening frame, Russ apparently sized up the situation and decided he needed to be more assertive. It was the correct decision. The Thunder need Russ to contribute big for them to be successful, and with the game slipping precariously close to out of reach, it was an opportune moment for him to step up. So he dialed himself in and went to work, getting to the rack and the line over and over again. To be sure, there were some ill-advised shots littered throughout his performance, but he was the major catalyst in OKC's rally. And then came the damning fourth period.
Better writers than I have detailed Westbrook's poor (read: non-existent) passing down the stretch in game three. He was clearly trying to do too much, to be "The Man" when that role clearly ought to be filled by Durant. It was a terrible display of selfish basketball, and not the first time we've seen it from Russ. One wonders whether all the hype he garnered starting with his Team USA performance this past summer and continuing over the season simply ballooned his head to a toxic degree. (Actually, the wondering is pretty much done.) OKC coach Scott Brooks had assured the media that a team film session and conversation had settled the problem. Obviously, that wasn't the case. But this wasn't just about a refusal to distribute the rock to his teammates, and Durant in particular. I'm willing to partially exonerate that behavior if Memphis has the clamps on KD; especially on a night like last night, when Westbrook had done so much to get his team back in the game. Maybe he knew he was rolling and decided to call his own hot-handed number. Maybe he felt he'd earned the right to close it out. It wasn't necessarily the smartest way to go, but I can understand his having those sentiments.
Russ' problem last night wasn't staying in "hero mode." If he wanted it, well, it doesn't always have to be Durant closing down the stretch. (Though Westbrook could better serve his team by ensuring that happens a good bit more in the future than it has recently.) The problem was the stagnation and ... hesitation isn't the right word, but the something Russ was doing or, more accurately, not doing. Too often late in the game, the shot clock determined the play. Memphis was playing good D, but they were pretty clearly gassed. If Westbrook was going to keep the ball in his own hands, he needed to do something with it. It seemed like he just sat at the top of the key, possession after possession, dribbling. And dribbling. And looking around the floor ... and dribbling some more, while the seconds ticked inexorably down. It had to be terrifying for Thunder fans to watch as their team did pretty much nothing at all for chunks of clock. Was he waiting for plays that never materialized, or taking too long to gauge the situation, or just plain despondent? He certainly wasn't too tired, because he continued to make drives, successful ones, but only after the shot clock was inching towards zero. Part of this has to fall at Scott Brooks' feet, because he should have taken one look at how exhausted the Griz were and ordered his team to dive bomb them at the rim, but it's Russ' job on the floor to make things happen. The Thunder won, and Westbrook's 40 points were certainly impressive, but those passive, clock-eating trips down the floor were not something to jump for joy over. I believe Westbrook will be come a better, less-selfish passer. I believe OKC needed him last night to do what he did. I believe that he had earned the right to have the game in his hands in the crucial moments. But those aimless, desolate stretches of inaction were strange and unpleasant to witness. A gold farthing to anyone who can tell me what was going on there.
"OK, tell me what I'm looking at."
Monday, May 9, 2011
Riddle Me This ...
It was beautiful to behold. For one critical fourth quarter last night, the Atlanta Hawks put their egos, their iso's, and their normal dysfunction on the back burner. Joe Johnson and Al Horford moved well off-ball, thus spacing the floor and getting themselves and their teammates good shots. Jeff Teague did his finest impression of his opposing counterpart, barreling through the lane and spinning in a few superb layups. And in the most surprising development of the night, Josh Smith jettisoned his "J-Smoove" persona and just played "regular smooth." After a display of his usual ill-advised long jumpers for most of the game had the Phillips Arena crowd groaning in agony, Smith finally did what everyone from coaches to teammates to fans wish he'd do all the time: wreaked havoc in the paint. Smith's final line last night looked like something Tim Duncan might have thrown up in his postseason prime: 23 points, 16 boards, 8 assists, 2 blocks, 1 steal, and a game-high plus-minus of +18. Good God. It was 12 minutes of marvelous, synchronized ball; five guys on the floor making the smart plays, the hustle plays, and the pretty, highlight-worthy plays too. It wasn't perfect, but it was really, really good. When the Hawks play this brand of basketball, they're not necessarily unstoppable, but they're a damned difficult team to beat.
... Which raises the question, where do these Hawks and that Josh Smith go for so much of the time? Are they chained up in the locker room, only released in moments of dire need? Are they floating on the bench, diaphanous ghosts that possess the players' bodies at intervals?
(I realize that I'm exhuming a dead horse to beat it further here, but it still baffles me too much to let it go.)
Personally, this team reminds me most closely of a recurring Saturday-morning cartoon shtick. You know the old gag where a character is contemplating two diametrically opposed courses of action, and the little cartoon angel and devil appear on either shoulder and have a pithy debate? That's the Hawks.
What's so interesting (and so frustrating) is that this goes way beyond any of the normal cliches associated with the sort of choppy play Atlanta has become known for. It's not about playing down to bad opponents and up to good ones; plenty of teams have that particular problem yet manage to overcome it. It doesn't appear to be about the kind of internal tensions and strife that imploded the Lakers this year, either. At least not in the overt, "wow something is really wrong there!" way. There have been a handful of snide comments or swaggering, self-defensive (and self-aggrandizing) remarks bandied about in post-game interviews, but overall, nothing significantly troubling. It's not even about apathy, or chemistry, or affectations.
And it's not about coaching. Not entirely, anyway. Like Mike Woodson before him, Larry Drew is trying to rein in a disparate collection of egos and finding it a difficult and largely unrewarding task, but he's not a bad coach, or at least not nearly as terrible as he's being made out by certain corners of the media. If the overwhelming evidence of game film and shooting percentages can't make Smith stop hoisting those shots, I don't think any psychological coaching tricks can. Nor can they make Joe Johnson pass more. When you give a player max money because he's exceptional at scoring buckets, you might want to brace yourself for him to try and do a lot of it. At a certain point, players' personalities are set, and that's all she wrote. You live with the good and the bad.
So it's not any of that. Not really. Those are the symptoms, they're not the actual disease.
What it is, is a team somehow playing very, very differently from a philosophical standpoint from night to night. There are drastic mental chasms separating this team from itself, like watching Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in high-intensity overdrive. If they were just the iso-Joe, shaky defense, J-Smoove bad-decisions, not-feeding-Horford-enough-in-the-post Hawks, well, that would stink, but it would be a concrete identity. Then the press, the fans, and everyone else would at least have something like this to hang their hats on:
"The Hawks are a team full of undisciplined gunners whose skills and athleticism are good for a playoff birth every year and maybe a little more, depending on the match-ups." Think of the razor-sharp clarity we'd have if that were the definitive book on this team. It's hardly superlative, but at least it's solid ground. And maybe more importantly, it's also a clearly-defined ceiling.
The thing is, then they go out and play like they did last night, and you just have to wonder. We saw a few similar games (or at least parts of games) scattered throughout the regular season. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, Atlanta would start making the extra pass, attacking and banging inside, and looking better even than just a well-comported, smart, unselfish team. For those magical little flashes, the Hawks looked downright title-contender imposing ... and then the following night (or half, or quarter, or possession) Joe would be in ball-stopper mode and Smith would be jacking up more ridiculous shots and we'd wonder if the whole thing was some crazy dream.
Last night was the first playoff evidence of the Hawks' full capabilities. In round 1, it felt like Atlanta got lucky with the Magic, both with match-ups and with Orlando's non-existent shooting. Then came the road win in game 1 of this Bulls series, which seemed more predicated on a bunch of improbable shots falling than on any particularly resplendent team play. Here, finally, was a glimpse for the rest of the NBA fandom into a completely different prism of Hawks basketball. My roommate, a casual fan who roots for the Celtics, watched the fourth quarter with me and was thoroughly impressed. I had to explain that we know better than to look for an encore in game 5, that to be a Hawks fan is to own a unique pathos that loosely translates: "It does not matter what we just witnessed. We have no compass at all. We don't know how or when, because the Hawks are a hellish dichotomy, but they probably will screw this up. They will be erratic and disjointed again down the line. It's inevitable." Last night, they were both the exception and the rule it proves or does not prove. It's maddening to contemplate.
Atlanta might win this series. In the playoffs, you'd be a fool to count on anything being definitive, no matter how obvious the premise may be. (See: Grizzlies : Round 1 and Lakers : Self-destruction.) But you'd also be a fool, if you've watched the Hawks this year, to think last night carried any implications other than a "2" in the win column for this series. For a team with so much talent and potential, the deadliest flaw is not poor decision making on the floor. It's a wavering non-identity that prohibits their decisions, good and bad, from having any personality or context.
Sadly, ultimately, the Atlanta Hawks are so protean as to be unrecognizable. Despite a handful of well-known stars on the roster, as a team, they might as well be faceless.
... Which raises the question, where do these Hawks and that Josh Smith go for so much of the time? Are they chained up in the locker room, only released in moments of dire need? Are they floating on the bench, diaphanous ghosts that possess the players' bodies at intervals?
(I realize that I'm exhuming a dead horse to beat it further here, but it still baffles me too much to let it go.)
Personally, this team reminds me most closely of a recurring Saturday-morning cartoon shtick. You know the old gag where a character is contemplating two diametrically opposed courses of action, and the little cartoon angel and devil appear on either shoulder and have a pithy debate? That's the Hawks.
What's so interesting (and so frustrating) is that this goes way beyond any of the normal cliches associated with the sort of choppy play Atlanta has become known for. It's not about playing down to bad opponents and up to good ones; plenty of teams have that particular problem yet manage to overcome it. It doesn't appear to be about the kind of internal tensions and strife that imploded the Lakers this year, either. At least not in the overt, "wow something is really wrong there!" way. There have been a handful of snide comments or swaggering, self-defensive (and self-aggrandizing) remarks bandied about in post-game interviews, but overall, nothing significantly troubling. It's not even about apathy, or chemistry, or affectations.
And it's not about coaching. Not entirely, anyway. Like Mike Woodson before him, Larry Drew is trying to rein in a disparate collection of egos and finding it a difficult and largely unrewarding task, but he's not a bad coach, or at least not nearly as terrible as he's being made out by certain corners of the media. If the overwhelming evidence of game film and shooting percentages can't make Smith stop hoisting those shots, I don't think any psychological coaching tricks can. Nor can they make Joe Johnson pass more. When you give a player max money because he's exceptional at scoring buckets, you might want to brace yourself for him to try and do a lot of it. At a certain point, players' personalities are set, and that's all she wrote. You live with the good and the bad.
So it's not any of that. Not really. Those are the symptoms, they're not the actual disease.
What it is, is a team somehow playing very, very differently from a philosophical standpoint from night to night. There are drastic mental chasms separating this team from itself, like watching Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in high-intensity overdrive. If they were just the iso-Joe, shaky defense, J-Smoove bad-decisions, not-feeding-Horford-enough-in-the-post Hawks, well, that would stink, but it would be a concrete identity. Then the press, the fans, and everyone else would at least have something like this to hang their hats on:
"The Hawks are a team full of undisciplined gunners whose skills and athleticism are good for a playoff birth every year and maybe a little more, depending on the match-ups." Think of the razor-sharp clarity we'd have if that were the definitive book on this team. It's hardly superlative, but at least it's solid ground. And maybe more importantly, it's also a clearly-defined ceiling.
The thing is, then they go out and play like they did last night, and you just have to wonder. We saw a few similar games (or at least parts of games) scattered throughout the regular season. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, Atlanta would start making the extra pass, attacking and banging inside, and looking better even than just a well-comported, smart, unselfish team. For those magical little flashes, the Hawks looked downright title-contender imposing ... and then the following night (or half, or quarter, or possession) Joe would be in ball-stopper mode and Smith would be jacking up more ridiculous shots and we'd wonder if the whole thing was some crazy dream.
Last night was the first playoff evidence of the Hawks' full capabilities. In round 1, it felt like Atlanta got lucky with the Magic, both with match-ups and with Orlando's non-existent shooting. Then came the road win in game 1 of this Bulls series, which seemed more predicated on a bunch of improbable shots falling than on any particularly resplendent team play. Here, finally, was a glimpse for the rest of the NBA fandom into a completely different prism of Hawks basketball. My roommate, a casual fan who roots for the Celtics, watched the fourth quarter with me and was thoroughly impressed. I had to explain that we know better than to look for an encore in game 5, that to be a Hawks fan is to own a unique pathos that loosely translates: "It does not matter what we just witnessed. We have no compass at all. We don't know how or when, because the Hawks are a hellish dichotomy, but they probably will screw this up. They will be erratic and disjointed again down the line. It's inevitable." Last night, they were both the exception and the rule it proves or does not prove. It's maddening to contemplate.
Atlanta might win this series. In the playoffs, you'd be a fool to count on anything being definitive, no matter how obvious the premise may be. (See: Grizzlies : Round 1 and Lakers : Self-destruction.) But you'd also be a fool, if you've watched the Hawks this year, to think last night carried any implications other than a "2" in the win column for this series. For a team with so much talent and potential, the deadliest flaw is not poor decision making on the floor. It's a wavering non-identity that prohibits their decisions, good and bad, from having any personality or context.
Sadly, ultimately, the Atlanta Hawks are so protean as to be unrecognizable. Despite a handful of well-known stars on the roster, as a team, they might as well be faceless.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
All Things Must Pass. (A Eulogy for the Old Guard of the NBA Aughts.)
The thread has been running through these playoffs and gathering momentum since jump. The same question has been parsed in various forms over and over: is this the season for a tectonic shift in the NBA landscape? We've been waiting for the Thunder to make the leap for a few seasons now, and the Bulls have been on the radar ever since Derrick Rose's coming out party and their subsequent (and so-far disappointing) Carlos Boozer acquisition. The playoff-revelation Memphis Grizzlies chose to ignore an official media baptism in favor of a blindside self-declaration of legitimacy. And of course, the Heat are trying to make good on the "not one, not two, not three ..." proclamations of rings and glory that turned so many people's stomachs this past summer. Against those four challengers stood the Old Guard. Boston, L.A., San Antonio; the teams that have collectively owned the league for the past decade. All season we've been watching, waiting, and wondering: was their reign crumbling before our eyes, or worse, had it already dissipated?
Honestly, I wanted to ignore it. Much as I love the process of watching young teams find themselves, and seeing young stars like Durrant and Rose ascend towards their ceilings, I wasn't quite ready to bid adieu to the teams that defined my twenties as a basketball fan. Maybe I'm overly sentimental, or maybe I just didn't think the change was coming so soon or so completely. The storylines of the incumbents seemed to have too much left in the tank; noble final chapters still to be penned.
I was looking forward to ...
The beautiful symmetry of Phil Jackson possibly ending a storied career with a fourth three-peat.
The debates that would be sparked if Kobe pulled even with MJ in the rings department. (In my book, MJ owns greatest-ever status, always will, and that's that, but the arguments would be fun, right?)
The Celtics potentially grabbing one more title before they officially had to begin a rebuilding process around Rondo and possibly sans Doc.
The Duncan-era Spurs' improbable best-in-the-West record seemingly declaring them, if not ready and able, at least viable to hang one more banner in the rafters before they faded out.
It all seemed too compelling to simply evaporate. Given all of the incredible moments and fantastic games we've been gifted with in the 2011 playoffs, I don't want to sound like an ingrate, but this isn't what I wanted. I wanted grizzled veteran heroics and historic rivalries. I wanted to watch Kobe doin' work and Ray Allen adding new footnotes to his "clutch" resume. I wanted Tim Duncan and Kevin Garnett to have one last day in the sun. I wanted Gregg Popovich and Phil Jackson and Doc Rivers to work their usual coaching wizardry. I wanted Springsteen-style "last chance power drives" from these venerable franchises. I wanted Old School, damn it! The young 'uns could wait their turn for one more season ... right?
Apparently not.
San Antonio is already gone, victims of a Grizzlies team who showed not one iota of deference or fear towards the Spurs' 1-seed and championship pedigree. So much for them. That leaves Boston and Los Angeles. (And Dallas, I suppose, if we're drawing the lines purely based on age, but the Mavs are trying to shake their own myriad playoff ghosts. They don't enter into the veteran-squads-with-rings group I was so anxious to see ignite in hopes of furthering their legacies. With the Spurs at home, for me, at least, it's about the Celtics and Lakers and one more shot at a Finals showdown.)
On Tuesday, I wrote a mini-rant on the media's dramatic overreactions to the Bulls' and Lakers' game-one losses. At the time, it seemed absurd to be mashing the panic button so quickly, but a lot has changed since then. The Bulls acquitted themselves; the Lakers did not. L.A. didn't just look like the lesser team last night, they looked tired and beaten and uncommitted. The easiest fingers can be leveled at Pau Gasol, whose lack of any impact whatsoever in this postseason is arguably the most glaring issue for the Lakers. But those fingers are not lacking for other targets. Kobe Bryant's ankle is clearly bothering him, and even his formidable killer instincts aren't worth much when he's clanging ineffective shots and missing easy layups like he did last night. The other Lakers starters are playing sub-par basketball, and the bench isn't giving them any help at all. Last night, L.A. shot a poor 41 FG%, a dismal 55% from the charity stripe, and bricked 18 treys before finally knocking down a pair when the game had already been decided. Virtually every possession had a sloppy, blurred quality to it. I've seen amateur photographers toting cheap Polaroids who were better able to focus. And better able to execute, for that matter. At times, their shot selection and decision-making has looked every bit as atrocious as my beloved Atlanta Hawks do on their worst nights. That last sentence wasn't even a little bit hyperbolic.
And then, deserving of its own can of worms after game two, there's the question of the Lakers' defense.
Andrew Bynum freely admitted in his post-game interview that the team is suffering from "trust issues." As Bynum described it, they're not supporting each other, and they're clearly more concerned with individual frustrations than with playing team defense right now. How else do you explain last night? 6-foot tall Dallas reserve PG J.J. Barea repeatedly drove the lane with impunity against the league's most physically imposing front line and torched L.A. for 12 points and 4 dimes. Yeesh. And how about Tyson Chandler getting fed alley-oop jams with no resistance at all? When people like that are generating significant offense and making statement plays to kill L.A.'s momentum, it's not a good sign. We expected Dirk to be Dirk, and Jason Kidd and Jet Terry to shoulder the Mavs' offensive load in bursts, but nothing like this. Right now, Dallas owns the Lakers, and not just in that 2-0 win/loss column. Is this to be the ignoble end of the Kobe/Phil era? Have they crossed the same undefinable yet instantly recognizable meridian that the Spurs did in the last round?
Dallas is actually the older team if you tally the birth certificates, but the Lakers are the ones looking hangdog exhausted. It's probably the cumulative effect of too many playoff games they should have won but didn't over the past few years. Those unnecessary extra nights of work put an awful lot of miles on their odometer en route to three straight finals appearances, and it's finally catching up to them. But it's not just physical fatigue, it's a psychological disconnect. The Lakers looked less resolved and less coherent than we've ever seen them last night, and we didn't need Bynum's comments to confirm what could be plainly seen on the court: their hearts and heads aren't in this. Given their current demeanor, it seems unlikely that even the great Phil Jackson can right the Lakers' mental ship at this point. When asked how he planned to motivate his team as the series moves to Dallas, the Zen Master quipped that he planned to "have them flogged." The comment drew a hail of chuckles from the reporters, but Jackson wasn't smiling. After all, down 2-0, the way L.A. is playing is no laughing matter. We can't count them out just yet, but that three-peat is looking more and more like a diaphanous pipe dream with every disarrayed minute.
And then there's the enigma that is the Boston Celtics. Thus far, they've been battered by injuries, hampered by foolish emotional decisions, and flat out-played by the upstart Miami Heat. Something is seriously fractured within the emotional framework of this Celtics team. Those aren't just cracks in the veneer; they're much closer to outright abysses. We knew coming in that Boston didn't have the raw athleticism to keep up with LBJ and D-Wade, but the assumption was that they could counteract that deficiency by playing to their strengths. Rajon Rondo appeared to be back on his game after sweeping the Knicks. Pierce, Allen, and Garnett were supposed to provide offensive muscle. Most importantly, the C's vaunted hyperactive, hyper-intelligent team defense should have alleviated at least a little of the James/Wade/(sometimes) Bosh barrage. Through two games, they're just about oh-for-everything on that checklist. Here's the thing: the Celtics aren't that old. Not really. Rondo obviously is just hitting his prime. Paul Pierce is still a high-caliber player on both ends of the floor. Ray Allen will probably be curling off screens and knocking down jumpers for another 2-4 years. Kevin Garnett is still the defensive anchor and a weapon down low. They're a little long in the tooth, sure, but they're not mummified yet. So exactly what the heck is wrong in Beantown? Here's my semi-complete breakdown of Boston's complete breakdown:
Q: What's with the lack of ball movement?
A: Don't mistake this for a polite way of asking "what's wrong with Rondo?" Rondo is fine. I realize that his game one performance wasn't a exactly a gem, but he's tallied 28 points and 19 assists in total over the first two games, and he was really rolling in game two. The 8 turnovers and flagging assist numbers (as compared to his regular season numbers) can be largely be explained by Miami's tenacious D (no pun intended) and the Big Three's total lethargy. If you watched game two, you saw it. Garnett, Pierce, and Allen appeared rooted to the floor. They were making almost no effort to get to open spaces or adhere to sets. This complete departure from their usual game incited a disgust in the young PG that was clearly etched into his face and body language. I hate to drop a cliche bomb this insipid, but Boston just isn't playing Celtics Basketball right now.
Which leads us to ...
Q: Veteran savvy? Ubuntu? What? Wherefore?
A: It's a possibility that the Perkins trade had deeper and far more sinister reverberations than we could ever have imagined. The advanced metrics community has already proved that Perk's absence had a negligible on-court impact from a statistical perspective, but it may have triggered a mammoth collective pathos attack for the C's. Was it perceived as a betrayal by Danny Ainge? Did it cause, or contribute to, the regression and reversion we're witnessing now? I'm going to leave the ref's questionable decision-making out of it and say this: Paul Pierce knows better than to put himself in a position to get tossed as he was late in game one. I thought we were past this kind of ill-advised petulance with him. And speaking of things that were supposedly over and done with: down the stretch in game 2, the Big Three were huddled up by themselves, plotting and discussing whatever it is you plot and discuss when you're in danger of going down 0-2 ... and their floor general was nowhere to be seen. Haven't we read this script before? The one where the Big Three are icing Rondo out of the leadership mix? Did he become that much of a malcontent simply because he no longer had Perk to pal around with? Something is rotten in the state of Boston's locker room, and the decay is wreaking havoc on the C's title aspirations.
And finally ...
Q: Can Boston's D regain its commanding swagger and contain the Heat?
A: Not like this, they can't. James Jones likely won't shoot that lights-out again, but as for stopping 'Bron and Wade, they just don't have it in them. They're seemingly a step slow and a buck short on very rotation, and they can't seem to stop the bleeding. On paper, the margins of defeat don't look all that bad, but it's the look on their faces and the sag in their shoulders that tells the story. Can they hang with the Heat? Absolutely. But to beat them, you have to shut either James or Wade down at least quasi-comprehensively, and they haven't show any evidence of that capability. Even Chris Bosh is, to a degree, free to get his now. KG simply can't be everywhere at once. If he's helping on Wade or LBJ, he can't simultaneously contain Miami's third wheel. Boston has lost that spark. To paraphrase Apollo Creed (and Survivor), they no longer have the "Eye Of The Tiger."
In short, the luck (and heart, and composure, and execution) of the Irish is wearing rather thin. Like their rivals in Los Angeles, Boston appears to be in the middle or a precipitous decline, and they know all too well what a difficult task it will be to climb up again if they fall too far.
The nails aren't in their respective coffins just yet, but the rest of the league is grabbing hammers from their tool sheds.
Look, I'm not saying that I won't relish every moment of watching OKC ascend to elite status, or Memphis and Chicago becoming whatever they're destined to become, or an improbable Mavericks' redemption. (I won't relish the Heat if they achieve and sustain dominance, but I'll deeply enjoy the basketball part of it, at least.) I just wish those moments could have been put on hold until next year. I'm all for change and parity in the NBA, and it looks like we're poised to get a healthy dosage of both, provided we have a season in 2011-2012. Bring it on, and Godspeed, but this is shaping up to be an inglorious and melancholy death knell for the giants of the aughts, and I'd rather not be watching the last rites unfold in front of me in such a pathetic fashion.
Playoff basketball should be a joyous time, but it's hard to sing and dance when heroes are crumbling and their successors are already casket shopping. The bell tolls for thee, Old Guard.
Honestly, I wanted to ignore it. Much as I love the process of watching young teams find themselves, and seeing young stars like Durrant and Rose ascend towards their ceilings, I wasn't quite ready to bid adieu to the teams that defined my twenties as a basketball fan. Maybe I'm overly sentimental, or maybe I just didn't think the change was coming so soon or so completely. The storylines of the incumbents seemed to have too much left in the tank; noble final chapters still to be penned.
I was looking forward to ...
The beautiful symmetry of Phil Jackson possibly ending a storied career with a fourth three-peat.
The debates that would be sparked if Kobe pulled even with MJ in the rings department. (In my book, MJ owns greatest-ever status, always will, and that's that, but the arguments would be fun, right?)
The Celtics potentially grabbing one more title before they officially had to begin a rebuilding process around Rondo and possibly sans Doc.
The Duncan-era Spurs' improbable best-in-the-West record seemingly declaring them, if not ready and able, at least viable to hang one more banner in the rafters before they faded out.
It all seemed too compelling to simply evaporate. Given all of the incredible moments and fantastic games we've been gifted with in the 2011 playoffs, I don't want to sound like an ingrate, but this isn't what I wanted. I wanted grizzled veteran heroics and historic rivalries. I wanted to watch Kobe doin' work and Ray Allen adding new footnotes to his "clutch" resume. I wanted Tim Duncan and Kevin Garnett to have one last day in the sun. I wanted Gregg Popovich and Phil Jackson and Doc Rivers to work their usual coaching wizardry. I wanted Springsteen-style "last chance power drives" from these venerable franchises. I wanted Old School, damn it! The young 'uns could wait their turn for one more season ... right?
Apparently not.
San Antonio is already gone, victims of a Grizzlies team who showed not one iota of deference or fear towards the Spurs' 1-seed and championship pedigree. So much for them. That leaves Boston and Los Angeles. (And Dallas, I suppose, if we're drawing the lines purely based on age, but the Mavs are trying to shake their own myriad playoff ghosts. They don't enter into the veteran-squads-with-rings group I was so anxious to see ignite in hopes of furthering their legacies. With the Spurs at home, for me, at least, it's about the Celtics and Lakers and one more shot at a Finals showdown.)
On Tuesday, I wrote a mini-rant on the media's dramatic overreactions to the Bulls' and Lakers' game-one losses. At the time, it seemed absurd to be mashing the panic button so quickly, but a lot has changed since then. The Bulls acquitted themselves; the Lakers did not. L.A. didn't just look like the lesser team last night, they looked tired and beaten and uncommitted. The easiest fingers can be leveled at Pau Gasol, whose lack of any impact whatsoever in this postseason is arguably the most glaring issue for the Lakers. But those fingers are not lacking for other targets. Kobe Bryant's ankle is clearly bothering him, and even his formidable killer instincts aren't worth much when he's clanging ineffective shots and missing easy layups like he did last night. The other Lakers starters are playing sub-par basketball, and the bench isn't giving them any help at all. Last night, L.A. shot a poor 41 FG%, a dismal 55% from the charity stripe, and bricked 18 treys before finally knocking down a pair when the game had already been decided. Virtually every possession had a sloppy, blurred quality to it. I've seen amateur photographers toting cheap Polaroids who were better able to focus. And better able to execute, for that matter. At times, their shot selection and decision-making has looked every bit as atrocious as my beloved Atlanta Hawks do on their worst nights. That last sentence wasn't even a little bit hyperbolic.
And then, deserving of its own can of worms after game two, there's the question of the Lakers' defense.
Andrew Bynum freely admitted in his post-game interview that the team is suffering from "trust issues." As Bynum described it, they're not supporting each other, and they're clearly more concerned with individual frustrations than with playing team defense right now. How else do you explain last night? 6-foot tall Dallas reserve PG J.J. Barea repeatedly drove the lane with impunity against the league's most physically imposing front line and torched L.A. for 12 points and 4 dimes. Yeesh. And how about Tyson Chandler getting fed alley-oop jams with no resistance at all? When people like that are generating significant offense and making statement plays to kill L.A.'s momentum, it's not a good sign. We expected Dirk to be Dirk, and Jason Kidd and Jet Terry to shoulder the Mavs' offensive load in bursts, but nothing like this. Right now, Dallas owns the Lakers, and not just in that 2-0 win/loss column. Is this to be the ignoble end of the Kobe/Phil era? Have they crossed the same undefinable yet instantly recognizable meridian that the Spurs did in the last round?
Dallas is actually the older team if you tally the birth certificates, but the Lakers are the ones looking hangdog exhausted. It's probably the cumulative effect of too many playoff games they should have won but didn't over the past few years. Those unnecessary extra nights of work put an awful lot of miles on their odometer en route to three straight finals appearances, and it's finally catching up to them. But it's not just physical fatigue, it's a psychological disconnect. The Lakers looked less resolved and less coherent than we've ever seen them last night, and we didn't need Bynum's comments to confirm what could be plainly seen on the court: their hearts and heads aren't in this. Given their current demeanor, it seems unlikely that even the great Phil Jackson can right the Lakers' mental ship at this point. When asked how he planned to motivate his team as the series moves to Dallas, the Zen Master quipped that he planned to "have them flogged." The comment drew a hail of chuckles from the reporters, but Jackson wasn't smiling. After all, down 2-0, the way L.A. is playing is no laughing matter. We can't count them out just yet, but that three-peat is looking more and more like a diaphanous pipe dream with every disarrayed minute.
And then there's the enigma that is the Boston Celtics. Thus far, they've been battered by injuries, hampered by foolish emotional decisions, and flat out-played by the upstart Miami Heat. Something is seriously fractured within the emotional framework of this Celtics team. Those aren't just cracks in the veneer; they're much closer to outright abysses. We knew coming in that Boston didn't have the raw athleticism to keep up with LBJ and D-Wade, but the assumption was that they could counteract that deficiency by playing to their strengths. Rajon Rondo appeared to be back on his game after sweeping the Knicks. Pierce, Allen, and Garnett were supposed to provide offensive muscle. Most importantly, the C's vaunted hyperactive, hyper-intelligent team defense should have alleviated at least a little of the James/Wade/(sometimes) Bosh barrage. Through two games, they're just about oh-for-everything on that checklist. Here's the thing: the Celtics aren't that old. Not really. Rondo obviously is just hitting his prime. Paul Pierce is still a high-caliber player on both ends of the floor. Ray Allen will probably be curling off screens and knocking down jumpers for another 2-4 years. Kevin Garnett is still the defensive anchor and a weapon down low. They're a little long in the tooth, sure, but they're not mummified yet. So exactly what the heck is wrong in Beantown? Here's my semi-complete breakdown of Boston's complete breakdown:
Q: What's with the lack of ball movement?
A: Don't mistake this for a polite way of asking "what's wrong with Rondo?" Rondo is fine. I realize that his game one performance wasn't a exactly a gem, but he's tallied 28 points and 19 assists in total over the first two games, and he was really rolling in game two. The 8 turnovers and flagging assist numbers (as compared to his regular season numbers) can be largely be explained by Miami's tenacious D (no pun intended) and the Big Three's total lethargy. If you watched game two, you saw it. Garnett, Pierce, and Allen appeared rooted to the floor. They were making almost no effort to get to open spaces or adhere to sets. This complete departure from their usual game incited a disgust in the young PG that was clearly etched into his face and body language. I hate to drop a cliche bomb this insipid, but Boston just isn't playing Celtics Basketball right now.
Which leads us to ...
Q: Veteran savvy? Ubuntu? What? Wherefore?
A: It's a possibility that the Perkins trade had deeper and far more sinister reverberations than we could ever have imagined. The advanced metrics community has already proved that Perk's absence had a negligible on-court impact from a statistical perspective, but it may have triggered a mammoth collective pathos attack for the C's. Was it perceived as a betrayal by Danny Ainge? Did it cause, or contribute to, the regression and reversion we're witnessing now? I'm going to leave the ref's questionable decision-making out of it and say this: Paul Pierce knows better than to put himself in a position to get tossed as he was late in game one. I thought we were past this kind of ill-advised petulance with him. And speaking of things that were supposedly over and done with: down the stretch in game 2, the Big Three were huddled up by themselves, plotting and discussing whatever it is you plot and discuss when you're in danger of going down 0-2 ... and their floor general was nowhere to be seen. Haven't we read this script before? The one where the Big Three are icing Rondo out of the leadership mix? Did he become that much of a malcontent simply because he no longer had Perk to pal around with? Something is rotten in the state of Boston's locker room, and the decay is wreaking havoc on the C's title aspirations.
And finally ...
Q: Can Boston's D regain its commanding swagger and contain the Heat?
A: Not like this, they can't. James Jones likely won't shoot that lights-out again, but as for stopping 'Bron and Wade, they just don't have it in them. They're seemingly a step slow and a buck short on very rotation, and they can't seem to stop the bleeding. On paper, the margins of defeat don't look all that bad, but it's the look on their faces and the sag in their shoulders that tells the story. Can they hang with the Heat? Absolutely. But to beat them, you have to shut either James or Wade down at least quasi-comprehensively, and they haven't show any evidence of that capability. Even Chris Bosh is, to a degree, free to get his now. KG simply can't be everywhere at once. If he's helping on Wade or LBJ, he can't simultaneously contain Miami's third wheel. Boston has lost that spark. To paraphrase Apollo Creed (and Survivor), they no longer have the "Eye Of The Tiger."
In short, the luck (and heart, and composure, and execution) of the Irish is wearing rather thin. Like their rivals in Los Angeles, Boston appears to be in the middle or a precipitous decline, and they know all too well what a difficult task it will be to climb up again if they fall too far.
The nails aren't in their respective coffins just yet, but the rest of the league is grabbing hammers from their tool sheds.
Look, I'm not saying that I won't relish every moment of watching OKC ascend to elite status, or Memphis and Chicago becoming whatever they're destined to become, or an improbable Mavericks' redemption. (I won't relish the Heat if they achieve and sustain dominance, but I'll deeply enjoy the basketball part of it, at least.) I just wish those moments could have been put on hold until next year. I'm all for change and parity in the NBA, and it looks like we're poised to get a healthy dosage of both, provided we have a season in 2011-2012. Bring it on, and Godspeed, but this is shaping up to be an inglorious and melancholy death knell for the giants of the aughts, and I'd rather not be watching the last rites unfold in front of me in such a pathetic fashion.
Playoff basketball should be a joyous time, but it's hard to sing and dance when heroes are crumbling and their successors are already casket shopping. The bell tolls for thee, Old Guard.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
The Madding Crowd
I love the crazy pendulum that is sports media. It's hypnotic watching that thing swing back-and-forth in the grandfather clock of hyperbole. Hypnotic, and hilarious. Today the pundits are up in diatribe-y arms, proclaiming the Bulls and Lakers in trouble. Adjectives like disinterested and complacent are raining like so many Hawks and Mavs fourth-quarter jumpers last night. According to some folks, the favorites are already on the ropes.
Deep breath, people. Let's take a moment to consider what we're saying. One-game deficits are not exactly Everests of insurmountability. L.A. dropped game one at home to N'Awlins in the last round. Didn't seem to bother them too badly, did it? Granted, they're not up against the Mavs of years past. Something about Dallas' demeanor last night made me think that maybe, even if they'll never admit it, Dirk and company are a little too sick of all the "soft" rhetoric they've been saddled with over the years. They might have found the perfect combination of veteran composure and an out-sized chip to adorn their collective shoulder. But no one is focused on Dallas, or what the Mavs did right or wrong last night. The magnifying glass seems to be focused squarely on the Lakers.
"Look, Kobe can't close!"
"They made stupid decisions!"
"They didn't put up a fight late!"
"What the hell is wrong with Pau Gasol?!?!?"
It's not that those issues aren't pertinent. If the L.A. can't find any answers, they may indeed be in trouble. They did look despondent for long stretches last night, Pau truly hasn't been himself all playoffs, and that late-game foul on Dirk was inexcusably foolish. But here's the thing: they're still the Lakers; the two-time defending NBA champs. The savviest coach in the game is still in his elevated chair on their sideline. They still have the single most imposing defensive interior in the game. And, age and slightly-diminished capabilities aside, that's still Kobe Bean Bryant out there. Last night was more evidence of what has become something of a trademark for this team: they don't turn on the afterburners until it's absolutely necessary. Which might be seen as a dangerous and disturbing trend unless you remember that it hasn't yet steered them wrong. Until a postseason knockout proves otherwise, the Lakers have earned the right to reserve their extra gears for when they're truly needed. L.A. will be dusting those off for game 2.
And then there's the hoopla surrounding the Chicago Bulls. Concerns over last night's loss to Atlanta have rocketed to a fever pitch over the last fifteen hours. You know what happened last night? Chicago had a bad game, and the Hawks had a great one. The Bulls were sluggish out of the gate, and didn't show any signs of life until the third quarter when they took a brief lead. But to think that they choked the game away, or that doing so is endemic of larger problems, means you haven't watched a whole lot of basketball this season. You don't win 62 games by being lucky. You don't simultaneously have the COY and MVP by accident. And you don't steamroll your playoff opponent by 33 on their turf a scant month-and-a-half ago if you're incapable of dealing with them. Chicago didn't cough up that game last night; the Hawks overachieved to get a victory on a string of improbable fourth-quarter shots that just aren't going to fall like that again. Last night was maybe the fifth time all year that Atlanta has looked like an honest-to-God basketball team, and they've demonstrated repeatedly that coherence and consistency are their weakest suits. For the Bulls, Carlos Boozer and Luol Deng finally showed signs of life last night, and Derrick Rose won't be that passive again, bum ankle or no. Not to mention the fact that Thibs won't let them come out that flat tomorrow night. Look for some heavy backlash on Wednesday before you try to strap a toe tag on Chicago.
While both favorites' games last night certainly didn't scream "TITLE CONTENDER!!!" from the rooftops, all of the people fretting and making jump-the-gun proclamations need to cool out. The Lakers are the defending champs, and the Bulls own the league's best record. To declare them in mortal peril after a game each in round 2? That's not just reactionary extremism, it's downright foolish. Entertaining as these debates and opinions may be, we need to stop swinging the pendulum, or at least slow it down a tad.
Deep breath, people. Let's take a moment to consider what we're saying. One-game deficits are not exactly Everests of insurmountability. L.A. dropped game one at home to N'Awlins in the last round. Didn't seem to bother them too badly, did it? Granted, they're not up against the Mavs of years past. Something about Dallas' demeanor last night made me think that maybe, even if they'll never admit it, Dirk and company are a little too sick of all the "soft" rhetoric they've been saddled with over the years. They might have found the perfect combination of veteran composure and an out-sized chip to adorn their collective shoulder. But no one is focused on Dallas, or what the Mavs did right or wrong last night. The magnifying glass seems to be focused squarely on the Lakers.
"Look, Kobe can't close!"
"They made stupid decisions!"
"They didn't put up a fight late!"
"What the hell is wrong with Pau Gasol?!?!?"
It's not that those issues aren't pertinent. If the L.A. can't find any answers, they may indeed be in trouble. They did look despondent for long stretches last night, Pau truly hasn't been himself all playoffs, and that late-game foul on Dirk was inexcusably foolish. But here's the thing: they're still the Lakers; the two-time defending NBA champs. The savviest coach in the game is still in his elevated chair on their sideline. They still have the single most imposing defensive interior in the game. And, age and slightly-diminished capabilities aside, that's still Kobe Bean Bryant out there. Last night was more evidence of what has become something of a trademark for this team: they don't turn on the afterburners until it's absolutely necessary. Which might be seen as a dangerous and disturbing trend unless you remember that it hasn't yet steered them wrong. Until a postseason knockout proves otherwise, the Lakers have earned the right to reserve their extra gears for when they're truly needed. L.A. will be dusting those off for game 2.
And then there's the hoopla surrounding the Chicago Bulls. Concerns over last night's loss to Atlanta have rocketed to a fever pitch over the last fifteen hours. You know what happened last night? Chicago had a bad game, and the Hawks had a great one. The Bulls were sluggish out of the gate, and didn't show any signs of life until the third quarter when they took a brief lead. But to think that they choked the game away, or that doing so is endemic of larger problems, means you haven't watched a whole lot of basketball this season. You don't win 62 games by being lucky. You don't simultaneously have the COY and MVP by accident. And you don't steamroll your playoff opponent by 33 on their turf a scant month-and-a-half ago if you're incapable of dealing with them. Chicago didn't cough up that game last night; the Hawks overachieved to get a victory on a string of improbable fourth-quarter shots that just aren't going to fall like that again. Last night was maybe the fifth time all year that Atlanta has looked like an honest-to-God basketball team, and they've demonstrated repeatedly that coherence and consistency are their weakest suits. For the Bulls, Carlos Boozer and Luol Deng finally showed signs of life last night, and Derrick Rose won't be that passive again, bum ankle or no. Not to mention the fact that Thibs won't let them come out that flat tomorrow night. Look for some heavy backlash on Wednesday before you try to strap a toe tag on Chicago.
While both favorites' games last night certainly didn't scream "TITLE CONTENDER!!!" from the rooftops, all of the people fretting and making jump-the-gun proclamations need to cool out. The Lakers are the defending champs, and the Bulls own the league's best record. To declare them in mortal peril after a game each in round 2? That's not just reactionary extremism, it's downright foolish. Entertaining as these debates and opinions may be, we need to stop swinging the pendulum, or at least slow it down a tad.
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