When I found out, I was sitting at a bar watching game six of the Hawks/Magic playoff series. From my vantage point, I couldn't see the TV that was broadcasting the NFL Draft, but I figured I could always check the results later, as there was an actual game on just then which demanded more attention. One of the guys watching the draft wandered past me and, seeing my Braves hat, correctly surmised where my loyalties lay, leading to the following exchange:
"Hey man, you a Falcons fan?"
"Yeah."
"Did you see what Atlanta did in the first round? It was crazy!"
(Uh oh ... rumors about Atlanta moving up from their pick at 27 to snag a top receiver had been circling around for a few days, but no one thought they'd be willing to make the necessary sacrifice to get a high enough pick to pull it off. Also, our biggest needs were on the defensive side of the ball. Everyone kind of figured it was smoke and mirrors.)
"Don't tell me they actually traded up for a wideout."
"Yeah, they did."
"Did we get A.J. Green?"
"Nope, Julio Jones."
(After a pause while I let that sink in): "What did we give up?"
"Five picks. First, second, and fourth this year, and your first and fourth next year."
"Are you messing with me?"
"No."
"Crap."
If it was A.J. Green, yeah, we make that move. Sign me up. But Green was already off the board, and this ... I just don't know. Alabama receiver Julio Jones is, to be sure, a very good football player. If we line him up opposite Roddy White next year, thus freeing up the middle for T-Gonz and preventing opponents from stacking the box against the run, we're going to give defensive coordinators fits. Throw Michael Jenkins into the equation, and we have loads of capable targets all over the field. Jones can't flat-out fly, but he's more than fast enough to keep opposing safeties honest, physical enough to get open underneath, and should also be useful in play-action. All of this is fact. On paper. That's if Jones can play well at the next level, if he doesn't get hurt, and if he can develop a good rapport with Matt Ryan. And we coughed up most of this year's draft and two picks next year to make that gamble? What about the fact that we could really use another good corner, or a true pass-rushing DE, or some help at OLB, or that some of our guys on both O- and D-line are getting up there in years and it would be prudent to replace them sooner rather than later? Instead of addressing any of these concerns we went out and got Matty Ice a new toy; an elite college receiver, a guy with great upside but also the potential, given how much we sacrificed to acquire him, to be a mammoth bust. There are only two possible explanations for this:
1. The Falcons are trying to become the NFL equivalent of the mid-2000's Phoenix Suns.
or ...
2. Maybe Atlanta's brain trust knows something we don't, or at the very least they have their eyes on some definitive options to fill those needs when we get around to free agency.
In Thomas Dimitroff and Mike Smith we trust ... I think. They haven't steered us wrong yet, and I suppose we probably did need another offensive weapon to counteract the Saints' drafting of Mark Ingram. Which, by the way, was a downright terrifying pick for the rest of the NFC South to behold. I watched a lot of Ingram last year and he is, as they say, a GROWN MAN. The more offensive firepower we can muster against our biggest in-division threat, the better. Still, if we don't shore up some of our defensive positions before game one's kickoff, this could be a long season.
As for the rest of the draft, I think the Falcons acquitted themselves very nicely. Akeem Dent and Cliff Matthews likely won't be stars on the defensive line, but they give us some nice depth and should be able to spell the starters for stretches. Guard Andrew Jackson (yeah, we drafted a president, what?) is also a decent pickup. I honestly know nothing about punter Matt Bosher firsthand, but scouting reports say he's competent, and you can't ask much more from a guy who plays the game with his leg.
I saved my favorite draft acquisition for last. There couldn't have been a happier fan on earth than myself when we drafted Oregon State running back Jacquizz Rodgers. Sometime in November, my buddy Chris and I were randomly watching an Oregon State game, and the first thing I saw was this tiny back just burning through the defense. He had a hell of a game, a whirl of firecracker speed and heart and grind, and that decided me: I was keeping tabs on Jacquizz Rodgers and praying the Falcons would draft him. Wish granted, and the guy's got legitimate cred: 2008 Pac-10 Offensive Player Of The Year, and second in Pac-10 rushing yards that season to Jhavid Best. He'll make a fantastic change-of-pace back alongside Michael Turner and Jason Snelling, and should be fairly productive for us.
Overall, it wasn't a bad draft, but it really does hinge on free agency solving our defensive issues, the massive caveat that Jones can meet the lofty expectations we apparently have for him. In roulette, the betting options are red and black. Falcons colors. Atlanta laid a bundle of chips down on Julio Jones, and as Bob Dylan would say, "the wheel's still in spin." Let's just hope the ball is in the right slot when it stops.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Sizing Up The Madness: NBA Playoffs Round 2 Preview
I'm feeling intensely conflicted about today's basketball-lessness. (Shut up, it's a word.) On one hand, any day without hoops loses significant points in the fun-and-exciting department. On the other, I may need a towel, a cold shower, and a good rest after round one. I'm struggling and failing to recall a time when so much lunacy and so many theatrics have unfolded in so brief a period of time. A quick recap:
*Chris Paul exploded for one of the great playoff performances we've ever witnessed.
27-15-13. Uh ... a point guard grabbed 13 boards while doing all of that, too? What?!?!?!?!?
*Brandon Roy hopped in a Delorean and tossed us a throwback gem.
*Kevin Durant made Denver look silly. A lot.
*The Hawks gained revenge for last year's humiliation by eliminating the Magic.
*A young Memphis squad went from fringe afterthought to "Holy %#%$!!!!" in record time. (Also, we may have seen a heroic last stand for the boys from the Alamo.)
*Derrick Rose was, well, himself.
*The Heat put it together on the postseason stage. Against Philly, but still.
*The Celtics got their mojo back, especially Rajon Rondo.
*The Mavs thumbed their collective noses at all the "soft" talk of playoffs past.
*Oh yeah, and Kobe posterized dudes on a bum ankle. Twice.
Round one was a whirlwind of breathtaking performances, unlikely heroics, and the first real sign, as exemplified by the Grizzlies/Spurs series, of a monumental (and generational) changing of the NBA guard that is either arriving as I type or is just over the horizon. The best part: starting now, we get to find out which it is.
Without further ado, the round two preview:
Eastern Conference Semis.
Boston Celtics/Miami Heat. This almost feels like a battle for the soul of basketball philosophy. Two diametrically opposed teams are putting their methodologies and assets to the test. Veterans vs. (relative) Youth. Homegrown Chemistry vs. Manufactured Excellence. In the battle of the whiteboards, Boston has a definitive edge. I haven't seen anything from Erik Spoelstra all year that would make me think he's in Doc Rivers' class in terms of adjustments, drawing plays up out of timeouts, or anything else. The Celtics also have a demonstrable (read: HYPER-MASSIVE) advantage at point guard. If he's on his game, Rajon Rondo will eat Mike Bibby alive. However, Boston's post-Perkins-weakened interior is a concern. Joel Anthony may not exactly be D12, but he's no slouch, and KG will be too busy with Chris Bosh to give Anthony much thought in the paint, leaving the task to Jermaine O'Neal, Nenad Kristic, or, if he's actually healthy, Shaq. None of those options are particularly appealing. The real fun, of course, is who guards who when LBJ and Dwayne Wade square off against Paul Pierce and Ray Allen. Throughout his career, Pierce has done reasonably well defending James one-on-one, and Rondo had a brief but successful defensive outing against him earlier this year, but Allen simply can't keep up with Wade. Like, at all. The C's have some of the best help defense in the league, and they'll need every ounce to try and contain Miami's duel threats. This is going to be hard-fought, tooth-and-nail hoops wire to wire, but I believe Boston has enough left in the tank, thanks to a nice rest after sweeping the Knicks, to prevail. Celtics in 7.
Atlanta Hawks/Chicago Bulls. The Hawks got here by eliminating an unbalanced and unlucky Magic squad who simply couldn't give Dwight Howard enough help. It's rare if ever that a bench player determines a team's destiny, but if we learned anything from round one, it's this: as Jamal Crawford goes, so go the Hawks. When Crawford is contributing meaningfully off the bench, as he did in all four Atlanta victories, the Hawks take on an added dimension. Of course, no matter how great their sixth man is playing, ATL still has to hope Joe Johnson can play consistently, and that Josh Smith can curb some of his more undesirable tendencies and focus only on what he can do well on the floor. The Bulls took out the lowly Pacers to advance, but they have to be concerned about how much trouble Indy gave them. Coach Thibs' vaunted defense was extremely patchy in stretches, and the Bulls held actual leads for only a small fraction of total game clock in the series, though it was the fraction that mattered most. Regardless of the condition of Carlos Boozer's injured toe, Al Horford is going to destroy him in the post, so that's one advantage for the Hawks. But of course, they have to try and contain Derrick Rose, and they may have lost their best hope of doing that if Kirk Hinrich misses a significant part of the series due to an injury he suffered in Atlanta's clinching victory over Orlando. No matter how badly his ankle is feeling, Rose should be able to carve up Atlanta's lackluster defense at will, and that will be the difference. Bulls in 5. (Bonus prediction: Number of altercations between Joakim Noah and Zaza Pachulia in this series: at least 10.)
Western Conference Semis.
Dallas Mavericks/Los Angeles Lakers. Finally, at long last, we get a Dirk vs. Kobe showdown in the postseason. It seems nigh-impossible that it hasn't happened before, but that's the NBA for you. Well, it's here now. I apparently had far too much faith in Portland and far too little in the Mavs when I predicted a Blazers win in round one, so consider my plate of crow respectfully eaten and washed down with a slice of humble pie. Leaving aside Kobe's formidable skills for a moment, let's focus on the battle in the paint. Tyson Chandler against Andrew Bynum seems like an almost criminally unfair matchup. Chandler averages about 60% of his normal production when facing the Lakers. Dirk Nowitzki against Pau Gasol is always an intriguing battle, even if Pau didn't look himself against the Hornets, but Dirk clearly has the advantage there. He'll be looking to disprove everyone who has made emphatic declarations about his "un-clutchness" in the past, and of course, he can score at will. In spite of that, L.A. has too much size, too much length, and too much physicality inside for the Mavs to handle, especially with Caron Butler out for the series. They should clean up on the glass, which might prove a sizable advantage. Dallas holds the edge in the Jason Kidd/Derek Fisher matchup at PG, but Ron Artest should give Shawn Marion, and anyone else Phil Jackson chooses to put him on defensively, fits. Look for him to spend a little time trying to slow Dirk down, as well. I still feel like Dallas has a slight edge on the bench, but that's not insurmountable. In the end, the series boils down to how lackadaisical the Lakers are feeling from game to game. If they get complacent, Dirk and co. will make them pay. Of course, L.A. also has that Kobe Bryant fellow, whom I understand is pretty good at basketball. If he's dialed in and doesn't go overboard with the do-it-all-myself approach, L.A. moves on to the Western Finals. Lakers in 6.
Memphis Grizzlies/Oklahoma City Thunder. Remember those old Warner Bros. cartoons where Wile E. Coyote would hatch some hair-brained scheme that involved strapping himself to a huge rocket and lighting the fuse? That's what watching this series should be like. I hope. (I had predicted similar fireworks for the OKC/Denver series and the darn thing fizzled, so I'm treading a little more lightly with the definitive statements this time around.) We can throw out the regular season head-to-heads as weather vanes here. Both teams are not what they were back then, literally and psychologically. OKC's new Perkins/Ibaka back court is certainly more daunting defensively than previous incarnations, but against Marc Gasol and the irrepressible Zach Randolph, the Thunder are going to lose the battle around the rim, mostly because Z-Bo and Gasol can actually generate potent offense inside. Memphis' Mike Conley actually fairs pretty well against wiz-kid PG Russell Westbrook, but when Russ is on his game, playing smart team basketball, and not suffering from the rare genetic disorder that makes him confuse himself intermittently with Michael Jordan, he's pretty much unstoppable. Thabo Sefolosha and Sam Young are a wash at the 2 offensively, as both are defensive guards at heart. Allen is a physical, savvy defender, but of course offensively he's no match for Kevin Durant. Speaking of KD, he's the wild card, or more accurately, how Lionel Hollins chooses to defend him is. Hollins will likely dial up some rotations in which bot Allen and Shane Battier are on the floor handling Durant and Westbrook, as both make smart switches on pick-and-rolls and fight through screens well, in addition to their one-on-one defensive skills. The benches here are pretty much even; OKC with a more set second unit, Memphis with a more disparate but more talented group. In the end, Durant and Westbrook are forces of nature for which the Griz don't have a real answer. Thunder in 7.
*Chris Paul exploded for one of the great playoff performances we've ever witnessed.
27-15-13. Uh ... a point guard grabbed 13 boards while doing all of that, too? What?!?!?!?!?
*Brandon Roy hopped in a Delorean and tossed us a throwback gem.
*Kevin Durant made Denver look silly. A lot.
*The Hawks gained revenge for last year's humiliation by eliminating the Magic.
*A young Memphis squad went from fringe afterthought to "Holy %#%$!!!!" in record time. (Also, we may have seen a heroic last stand for the boys from the Alamo.)
*Derrick Rose was, well, himself.
*The Heat put it together on the postseason stage. Against Philly, but still.
*The Celtics got their mojo back, especially Rajon Rondo.
*The Mavs thumbed their collective noses at all the "soft" talk of playoffs past.
*Oh yeah, and Kobe posterized dudes on a bum ankle. Twice.
Round one was a whirlwind of breathtaking performances, unlikely heroics, and the first real sign, as exemplified by the Grizzlies/Spurs series, of a monumental (and generational) changing of the NBA guard that is either arriving as I type or is just over the horizon. The best part: starting now, we get to find out which it is.
Without further ado, the round two preview:
Eastern Conference Semis.
Boston Celtics/Miami Heat. This almost feels like a battle for the soul of basketball philosophy. Two diametrically opposed teams are putting their methodologies and assets to the test. Veterans vs. (relative) Youth. Homegrown Chemistry vs. Manufactured Excellence. In the battle of the whiteboards, Boston has a definitive edge. I haven't seen anything from Erik Spoelstra all year that would make me think he's in Doc Rivers' class in terms of adjustments, drawing plays up out of timeouts, or anything else. The Celtics also have a demonstrable (read: HYPER-MASSIVE) advantage at point guard. If he's on his game, Rajon Rondo will eat Mike Bibby alive. However, Boston's post-Perkins-weakened interior is a concern. Joel Anthony may not exactly be D12, but he's no slouch, and KG will be too busy with Chris Bosh to give Anthony much thought in the paint, leaving the task to Jermaine O'Neal, Nenad Kristic, or, if he's actually healthy, Shaq. None of those options are particularly appealing. The real fun, of course, is who guards who when LBJ and Dwayne Wade square off against Paul Pierce and Ray Allen. Throughout his career, Pierce has done reasonably well defending James one-on-one, and Rondo had a brief but successful defensive outing against him earlier this year, but Allen simply can't keep up with Wade. Like, at all. The C's have some of the best help defense in the league, and they'll need every ounce to try and contain Miami's duel threats. This is going to be hard-fought, tooth-and-nail hoops wire to wire, but I believe Boston has enough left in the tank, thanks to a nice rest after sweeping the Knicks, to prevail. Celtics in 7.
Atlanta Hawks/Chicago Bulls. The Hawks got here by eliminating an unbalanced and unlucky Magic squad who simply couldn't give Dwight Howard enough help. It's rare if ever that a bench player determines a team's destiny, but if we learned anything from round one, it's this: as Jamal Crawford goes, so go the Hawks. When Crawford is contributing meaningfully off the bench, as he did in all four Atlanta victories, the Hawks take on an added dimension. Of course, no matter how great their sixth man is playing, ATL still has to hope Joe Johnson can play consistently, and that Josh Smith can curb some of his more undesirable tendencies and focus only on what he can do well on the floor. The Bulls took out the lowly Pacers to advance, but they have to be concerned about how much trouble Indy gave them. Coach Thibs' vaunted defense was extremely patchy in stretches, and the Bulls held actual leads for only a small fraction of total game clock in the series, though it was the fraction that mattered most. Regardless of the condition of Carlos Boozer's injured toe, Al Horford is going to destroy him in the post, so that's one advantage for the Hawks. But of course, they have to try and contain Derrick Rose, and they may have lost their best hope of doing that if Kirk Hinrich misses a significant part of the series due to an injury he suffered in Atlanta's clinching victory over Orlando. No matter how badly his ankle is feeling, Rose should be able to carve up Atlanta's lackluster defense at will, and that will be the difference. Bulls in 5. (Bonus prediction: Number of altercations between Joakim Noah and Zaza Pachulia in this series: at least 10.)
Western Conference Semis.
Dallas Mavericks/Los Angeles Lakers. Finally, at long last, we get a Dirk vs. Kobe showdown in the postseason. It seems nigh-impossible that it hasn't happened before, but that's the NBA for you. Well, it's here now. I apparently had far too much faith in Portland and far too little in the Mavs when I predicted a Blazers win in round one, so consider my plate of crow respectfully eaten and washed down with a slice of humble pie. Leaving aside Kobe's formidable skills for a moment, let's focus on the battle in the paint. Tyson Chandler against Andrew Bynum seems like an almost criminally unfair matchup. Chandler averages about 60% of his normal production when facing the Lakers. Dirk Nowitzki against Pau Gasol is always an intriguing battle, even if Pau didn't look himself against the Hornets, but Dirk clearly has the advantage there. He'll be looking to disprove everyone who has made emphatic declarations about his "un-clutchness" in the past, and of course, he can score at will. In spite of that, L.A. has too much size, too much length, and too much physicality inside for the Mavs to handle, especially with Caron Butler out for the series. They should clean up on the glass, which might prove a sizable advantage. Dallas holds the edge in the Jason Kidd/Derek Fisher matchup at PG, but Ron Artest should give Shawn Marion, and anyone else Phil Jackson chooses to put him on defensively, fits. Look for him to spend a little time trying to slow Dirk down, as well. I still feel like Dallas has a slight edge on the bench, but that's not insurmountable. In the end, the series boils down to how lackadaisical the Lakers are feeling from game to game. If they get complacent, Dirk and co. will make them pay. Of course, L.A. also has that Kobe Bryant fellow, whom I understand is pretty good at basketball. If he's dialed in and doesn't go overboard with the do-it-all-myself approach, L.A. moves on to the Western Finals. Lakers in 6.
Memphis Grizzlies/Oklahoma City Thunder. Remember those old Warner Bros. cartoons where Wile E. Coyote would hatch some hair-brained scheme that involved strapping himself to a huge rocket and lighting the fuse? That's what watching this series should be like. I hope. (I had predicted similar fireworks for the OKC/Denver series and the darn thing fizzled, so I'm treading a little more lightly with the definitive statements this time around.) We can throw out the regular season head-to-heads as weather vanes here. Both teams are not what they were back then, literally and psychologically. OKC's new Perkins/Ibaka back court is certainly more daunting defensively than previous incarnations, but against Marc Gasol and the irrepressible Zach Randolph, the Thunder are going to lose the battle around the rim, mostly because Z-Bo and Gasol can actually generate potent offense inside. Memphis' Mike Conley actually fairs pretty well against wiz-kid PG Russell Westbrook, but when Russ is on his game, playing smart team basketball, and not suffering from the rare genetic disorder that makes him confuse himself intermittently with Michael Jordan, he's pretty much unstoppable. Thabo Sefolosha and Sam Young are a wash at the 2 offensively, as both are defensive guards at heart. Allen is a physical, savvy defender, but of course offensively he's no match for Kevin Durant. Speaking of KD, he's the wild card, or more accurately, how Lionel Hollins chooses to defend him is. Hollins will likely dial up some rotations in which bot Allen and Shane Battier are on the floor handling Durant and Westbrook, as both make smart switches on pick-and-rolls and fight through screens well, in addition to their one-on-one defensive skills. The benches here are pretty much even; OKC with a more set second unit, Memphis with a more disparate but more talented group. In the end, Durant and Westbrook are forces of nature for which the Griz don't have a real answer. Thunder in 7.
Bouncing Into Graceland.
Today, the Mississippi delta is, indeed, shining like a National guitar. When the final buzzer sounded last night, the crowd at FedEx Forum erupted, showering wave upon wave of love upon their heretofore beleaguered Memphis Grizzlies.
Years of mediocre play, Pau Gasol trade jokes, and ignoble playoff humiliations were washed away like so much delta mud last night by the inexorable flow of Tony Allen's unstoppable motor, Shane Battier's veteran grit, Marc Gasol's paint-banging acumen, and, of course, Zach Randolph. The man called Z-Bo, who had been bounced around the league like a pinball before landing in Memphis in 2009, has found himself a home. You could see it on his face after the game; a huge, punch-drunk grin soaking up the adoration of a fan base who couldn't care less about his past issues. He's here now, and he's one of their own. Last night, he had every reason to be smiling, and to believe that a large quotient of those cheers were reserved for him alone. Despite the pressure of the moment, he was absolutely relentless, tallying 11 rebounds, 2 assists, a steal, and a monstrous 31 points.
After opening an early 14-point lead, Memphis held serve fro most of the game. Every time San Antonio looked to be generating momentum, the Griz found somebody to stifle it. The struggling Greivis Vasquez kicked in 11 points off the bench, and Darrel Arthur had one huge block and a thunderous alley-oop jam that sent the place into near-hysterics. But the veteran Spurs weren't going gentle in to the humid Memphis night. Their championship-laden core trio of Tony Parker, Manu Ginobili, and Tim Duncan combined for 51 points and nine assists, and they got additional help from Antonio McDyess (10) and their young reserves, who gave them 30 points off the bench. Despite getting killed 43-32 on the glass, The Spurs just kept hanging around, and Ginobili's past-half-court heave at the third quarter buzzer looked like one more improbable shot by the Argentinian that might spark
one more equally-improbable comeback.
99% of the fourth quarter belonged to Z-Bo, who put up 17 points in the final frame. Shifting into fifth gear, he unleashed a hailstorm of floaters, put-backs, jumpers, and hooks in the paint that left San Antonio dizzy. Even when the Spurs managed to claw their way to an 80-79 lead midway through the period, they looked beaten. Like a boxer who refuses to stop the fight, they were going to reel their way to the end, a proud and dignified team not about to concede the inevitable. (I'm not going to burn space on a eulogy for the San Antonio dynasty here, as plenty of people are already performing the media's version of last rites. Tim Duncan and coach Gregg Popovich don't want to talk about those kinds of implications yet, and we ought to respect their wishes, no matter what our eyes are telling us.)
As I said: the 4th was 99% Randolph's. The other 1%: Tony Allen exemplifying the kind of attitude and grit we love to see in the playoffs. Allen caught an errant outlet pass at half-court, and the Spurs' Matt Bonner, rushing over to defend, knocked him into the scorer's table. As teammates and sideline personnel came over to help him up, Allen waved everybody off, his gestures and his face saying plainly: "I don't need help. We don't need help. I'm getting up, and we're going to put these guys away." It was a great moment, the perfect encapsulation of Memphis' blue-collar mentality and spirit. In the end, that spirit glared brightly out from the scoreboard: a 99-91 victory and a ticket to round two.
It was a historic first round for Memphis. The team chalked up its first playoff victory, its first postseason series victory, and in the process became just the second 8th-seeded squad to advance since the first round went to a best-of-seven format. The Grizzlies now face the unenviable task of battling the Oklahoma City Thunder in round two, whose youthful legs present a completely different challenge. Given the tenor of these playoffs thus far, we can likely expect another epic series. Right now, the Griz are probably all business and preparation. Their minds are already on and in OKC, but after last night, I'd bet their feet are still ten feet off of Beale.
Years of mediocre play, Pau Gasol trade jokes, and ignoble playoff humiliations were washed away like so much delta mud last night by the inexorable flow of Tony Allen's unstoppable motor, Shane Battier's veteran grit, Marc Gasol's paint-banging acumen, and, of course, Zach Randolph. The man called Z-Bo, who had been bounced around the league like a pinball before landing in Memphis in 2009, has found himself a home. You could see it on his face after the game; a huge, punch-drunk grin soaking up the adoration of a fan base who couldn't care less about his past issues. He's here now, and he's one of their own. Last night, he had every reason to be smiling, and to believe that a large quotient of those cheers were reserved for him alone. Despite the pressure of the moment, he was absolutely relentless, tallying 11 rebounds, 2 assists, a steal, and a monstrous 31 points.
After opening an early 14-point lead, Memphis held serve fro most of the game. Every time San Antonio looked to be generating momentum, the Griz found somebody to stifle it. The struggling Greivis Vasquez kicked in 11 points off the bench, and Darrel Arthur had one huge block and a thunderous alley-oop jam that sent the place into near-hysterics. But the veteran Spurs weren't going gentle in to the humid Memphis night. Their championship-laden core trio of Tony Parker, Manu Ginobili, and Tim Duncan combined for 51 points and nine assists, and they got additional help from Antonio McDyess (10) and their young reserves, who gave them 30 points off the bench. Despite getting killed 43-32 on the glass, The Spurs just kept hanging around, and Ginobili's past-half-court heave at the third quarter buzzer looked like one more improbable shot by the Argentinian that might spark
one more equally-improbable comeback.
99% of the fourth quarter belonged to Z-Bo, who put up 17 points in the final frame. Shifting into fifth gear, he unleashed a hailstorm of floaters, put-backs, jumpers, and hooks in the paint that left San Antonio dizzy. Even when the Spurs managed to claw their way to an 80-79 lead midway through the period, they looked beaten. Like a boxer who refuses to stop the fight, they were going to reel their way to the end, a proud and dignified team not about to concede the inevitable. (I'm not going to burn space on a eulogy for the San Antonio dynasty here, as plenty of people are already performing the media's version of last rites. Tim Duncan and coach Gregg Popovich don't want to talk about those kinds of implications yet, and we ought to respect their wishes, no matter what our eyes are telling us.)
As I said: the 4th was 99% Randolph's. The other 1%: Tony Allen exemplifying the kind of attitude and grit we love to see in the playoffs. Allen caught an errant outlet pass at half-court, and the Spurs' Matt Bonner, rushing over to defend, knocked him into the scorer's table. As teammates and sideline personnel came over to help him up, Allen waved everybody off, his gestures and his face saying plainly: "I don't need help. We don't need help. I'm getting up, and we're going to put these guys away." It was a great moment, the perfect encapsulation of Memphis' blue-collar mentality and spirit. In the end, that spirit glared brightly out from the scoreboard: a 99-91 victory and a ticket to round two.
It was a historic first round for Memphis. The team chalked up its first playoff victory, its first postseason series victory, and in the process became just the second 8th-seeded squad to advance since the first round went to a best-of-seven format. The Grizzlies now face the unenviable task of battling the Oklahoma City Thunder in round two, whose youthful legs present a completely different challenge. Given the tenor of these playoffs thus far, we can likely expect another epic series. Right now, the Griz are probably all business and preparation. Their minds are already on and in OKC, but after last night, I'd bet their feet are still ten feet off of Beale.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Draft Day Story Time.
Happy Draft Day! With the black cloud of CBA negotiations hanging over the NFL's biggest off season event, how's about a little story time with Uncle Trav?
If it registered on your radar at all, it's been long since relegated to the backwoods of memory. On March 10, 2003, the Dixie Chicks were opening their "Top Of The World" tour in England, when singer Natalie Maines, speaking about the then-nascent Iraq war, told the crowd:
"Just so you know, we’re on the good side with y’all. We do not want this war, this violence, and we’re ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas." (Where the band hails from.)
The backlash from country music, whose listenership is largely Republican and pro-war, was instantaneous. The immensely popular band was blacklisted by country radio across the nation, and disavowed by many of their own fans. Nashville essentially severed all ties. At the time, the firestorm of reaction struck me not only as absurdly disproportionate and ill-reasoned, but also as an incredibly poor business decision by the country music industry.
Most of the nation regards country as backwoods, backwards, and above all, deeply uncool. Outside of the Midwest and the Bible Belt, its fans are scarce. The Dixie Chicks were a once-in-a-generation opportunity for the genre to expand its fan base on a grand scale. Three attractive, hyper-talented women who sing catchy tunes and actually play their own instruments (a rarity in country.) A marketing department couldn't have cooked up a better formula in a lab. And the Chicks were already bridging the gap. Their songs were getting pop radio rotation, and charting not just in Billboard Magazine's Country category, but on the Top 40 list as well. They were pulling down Grammys left and right, and their assertive, feminist anthems were successfully battling for the affections of fourteen-year old girls normally obsessed with N'Sync. And of course, guys thought they were sassy and smokin' hot. It was a rare chance for country to use a group to pull more listeners in and turn them on to its other top artists, to make itself relevant and big-time, as it had done (kind of) with Garth Brooks a generation earlier. (That's exactly what happened with me. I used to hate contemporary country, until a friend got me the Dixie Chicks' first album as a gag gift one Christmas. I got hooked.)
Everything was fine and dandy, both the band and the industry were breaching the normally unassailable walls of Pop Music, until Mrs. Maines decided to voice her thoughts about the war and the President who was spearheading it. The reaction of the country industry and its fans broke the irony scale. See, more than any other music, patriotism plays a conscious and important role in country's ideology. (You know that song "God Bless The USA"? Country tune.) Yet here were legions of people crucifying their own, simply because they exercised their basic, Constitutional right of free speech and opinion. Instead of non-country fans using the Dixie Chicks as a bridge to discover more of Nashville's offerings, they embraced the Chicks but shunned the musical community that denounced them so vehemently. Because of a misguided moral high ground, country alienated many of the very people it could have used the band to reach, and insured that the Dixie Chicks would never align themselves again with the Nashville royalty they were once so close with. It was hypocritical, nonsensical behavior, and it cost the industry who knows how many new fans and how much revenue down the line. In denying the patriotic values so often espoused in its music, country put what should have been a genre-crossing cash cow out to pasture. To belabor the barnyard metaphor, Nashville loaded both barrels, took aim, and blew the golden goose to smithereens. "I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free!" apparently did not include the First Amendment as pertains to unpopular (to your fans) political views.
Did that parable remind you of anything? Like, say ... an equally hypocritical and irrational group of NFL owners during a lockout?
When judge Susan Nelson lifted the lockout two days ago, many players attempted to show up for work. However, on arrival at their teams' practice facilities, they found that the owners had, in lieu of a legal lockout, adopted a literal one. No weight rooms or treadmills for you, guys. Access denied. It was the latest and most petty transgression by the owners, but hardly the biggest one.
This whole unfortunate train wreck has been a parade of ego, greed, and false premises. After a season of bluster and rhetoric from the league regarding CTE and concussions, the inanity of owners pushing for an 18-game season is staggering. How can you hand out fines and suspensions for illegal hits, all in the name of player safety, and then coldly suggest that your athletes subject themselves to more punishment because more games mean more TV revenue and ticket sales? The owners counter the question by arguing that they'll accommodate the additional games by shortening the preseason, but there are two things wrong with that. First, coaching staffs need those four full preseason games. Rosters and depth charts have to be sussed out and solidified. Playbooks and packages need that crucial period of experimentation before the team can find its identity. Halve the learning process, and inferior play will be the result. Second, I've watched considerably fewer preseason games than I have regular ones, but the sample size is large enough to tell you this: the disparity in intensity levels is substantial. The punishment and injury risks elevate when the win column starts counting and everyone is going flat-out on every down, so claiming that the players won't be exposed to more potential damage by reducing the preseason in favor of two more actual games is bunk.
Despite revenue streams that have grown every year, the owners claim they're losing money, and that they need a $1 billion-augmented slice of the NFL pie in order to stay afloat. This statement has sparked widespread incredulity, but since the players and most fans aren't accounting majors, I'd be willing to believe that such is the case ... if we had any proof. Yet the owners are obstinately refusing to open their books and demonstrate where the losses are coming from. I'm not saying the NFLPA is blameless here. Certainly, the CBA needs to be restructured to prevent unproven rookies from banking $50 million contracts, and if the league as a whole can benefit from the players taking a little less, they ought to concede it. (Also, shame on them for attempting to dissuade the incoming draft class from actually attending tonight's draft. I understand the need to demonstrate player solidarity, but these young men shouldn't be deprived of their moment in the sun, a confirmation and realization of their dreams.) I believe the players need to give a little ground too, but as long as the owners refuse to provide evidence of their supposed fiscal difficulties, they majority of the blame lays at their feet.
Finally, the owners are shooting themselves in the foot as regards the draft. Without the benefit of the normal free agency period to fill holes in their rosters, teams will be playing a higher-stakes game of roulette with their picks than usual, drafting without knowing what current players they might acquire later. It's not an insurmountable challenge for front offices, but it could potentially harm a number of franchises. It's already a gambling scenario, and the owners are doing nothing more than hurting themselves by hampering their teams' ability to draft as wisely as possible.
Ultimately, I think the CBA will be hammered out, and we'll have a season to enjoy next year, albiet a possibly shortened one. Compromises will be reached, and at least quasi-satisfaction will be had by both parties. The question is: how much fan backlash will be incurred along the way? Like country music, football is too popular to die, but by behaving so foolishly, the NFL owners are putting that old golden goose in harm's way.
If it registered on your radar at all, it's been long since relegated to the backwoods of memory. On March 10, 2003, the Dixie Chicks were opening their "Top Of The World" tour in England, when singer Natalie Maines, speaking about the then-nascent Iraq war, told the crowd:
"Just so you know, we’re on the good side with y’all. We do not want this war, this violence, and we’re ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas." (Where the band hails from.)
The backlash from country music, whose listenership is largely Republican and pro-war, was instantaneous. The immensely popular band was blacklisted by country radio across the nation, and disavowed by many of their own fans. Nashville essentially severed all ties. At the time, the firestorm of reaction struck me not only as absurdly disproportionate and ill-reasoned, but also as an incredibly poor business decision by the country music industry.
Most of the nation regards country as backwoods, backwards, and above all, deeply uncool. Outside of the Midwest and the Bible Belt, its fans are scarce. The Dixie Chicks were a once-in-a-generation opportunity for the genre to expand its fan base on a grand scale. Three attractive, hyper-talented women who sing catchy tunes and actually play their own instruments (a rarity in country.) A marketing department couldn't have cooked up a better formula in a lab. And the Chicks were already bridging the gap. Their songs were getting pop radio rotation, and charting not just in Billboard Magazine's Country category, but on the Top 40 list as well. They were pulling down Grammys left and right, and their assertive, feminist anthems were successfully battling for the affections of fourteen-year old girls normally obsessed with N'Sync. And of course, guys thought they were sassy and smokin' hot. It was a rare chance for country to use a group to pull more listeners in and turn them on to its other top artists, to make itself relevant and big-time, as it had done (kind of) with Garth Brooks a generation earlier. (That's exactly what happened with me. I used to hate contemporary country, until a friend got me the Dixie Chicks' first album as a gag gift one Christmas. I got hooked.)
Everything was fine and dandy, both the band and the industry were breaching the normally unassailable walls of Pop Music, until Mrs. Maines decided to voice her thoughts about the war and the President who was spearheading it. The reaction of the country industry and its fans broke the irony scale. See, more than any other music, patriotism plays a conscious and important role in country's ideology. (You know that song "God Bless The USA"? Country tune.) Yet here were legions of people crucifying their own, simply because they exercised their basic, Constitutional right of free speech and opinion. Instead of non-country fans using the Dixie Chicks as a bridge to discover more of Nashville's offerings, they embraced the Chicks but shunned the musical community that denounced them so vehemently. Because of a misguided moral high ground, country alienated many of the very people it could have used the band to reach, and insured that the Dixie Chicks would never align themselves again with the Nashville royalty they were once so close with. It was hypocritical, nonsensical behavior, and it cost the industry who knows how many new fans and how much revenue down the line. In denying the patriotic values so often espoused in its music, country put what should have been a genre-crossing cash cow out to pasture. To belabor the barnyard metaphor, Nashville loaded both barrels, took aim, and blew the golden goose to smithereens. "I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free!" apparently did not include the First Amendment as pertains to unpopular (to your fans) political views.
Did that parable remind you of anything? Like, say ... an equally hypocritical and irrational group of NFL owners during a lockout?
When judge Susan Nelson lifted the lockout two days ago, many players attempted to show up for work. However, on arrival at their teams' practice facilities, they found that the owners had, in lieu of a legal lockout, adopted a literal one. No weight rooms or treadmills for you, guys. Access denied. It was the latest and most petty transgression by the owners, but hardly the biggest one.
This whole unfortunate train wreck has been a parade of ego, greed, and false premises. After a season of bluster and rhetoric from the league regarding CTE and concussions, the inanity of owners pushing for an 18-game season is staggering. How can you hand out fines and suspensions for illegal hits, all in the name of player safety, and then coldly suggest that your athletes subject themselves to more punishment because more games mean more TV revenue and ticket sales? The owners counter the question by arguing that they'll accommodate the additional games by shortening the preseason, but there are two things wrong with that. First, coaching staffs need those four full preseason games. Rosters and depth charts have to be sussed out and solidified. Playbooks and packages need that crucial period of experimentation before the team can find its identity. Halve the learning process, and inferior play will be the result. Second, I've watched considerably fewer preseason games than I have regular ones, but the sample size is large enough to tell you this: the disparity in intensity levels is substantial. The punishment and injury risks elevate when the win column starts counting and everyone is going flat-out on every down, so claiming that the players won't be exposed to more potential damage by reducing the preseason in favor of two more actual games is bunk.
Despite revenue streams that have grown every year, the owners claim they're losing money, and that they need a $1 billion-augmented slice of the NFL pie in order to stay afloat. This statement has sparked widespread incredulity, but since the players and most fans aren't accounting majors, I'd be willing to believe that such is the case ... if we had any proof. Yet the owners are obstinately refusing to open their books and demonstrate where the losses are coming from. I'm not saying the NFLPA is blameless here. Certainly, the CBA needs to be restructured to prevent unproven rookies from banking $50 million contracts, and if the league as a whole can benefit from the players taking a little less, they ought to concede it. (Also, shame on them for attempting to dissuade the incoming draft class from actually attending tonight's draft. I understand the need to demonstrate player solidarity, but these young men shouldn't be deprived of their moment in the sun, a confirmation and realization of their dreams.) I believe the players need to give a little ground too, but as long as the owners refuse to provide evidence of their supposed fiscal difficulties, they majority of the blame lays at their feet.
Finally, the owners are shooting themselves in the foot as regards the draft. Without the benefit of the normal free agency period to fill holes in their rosters, teams will be playing a higher-stakes game of roulette with their picks than usual, drafting without knowing what current players they might acquire later. It's not an insurmountable challenge for front offices, but it could potentially harm a number of franchises. It's already a gambling scenario, and the owners are doing nothing more than hurting themselves by hampering their teams' ability to draft as wisely as possible.
Ultimately, I think the CBA will be hammered out, and we'll have a season to enjoy next year, albiet a possibly shortened one. Compromises will be reached, and at least quasi-satisfaction will be had by both parties. The question is: how much fan backlash will be incurred along the way? Like country music, football is too popular to die, but by behaving so foolishly, the NFL owners are putting that old golden goose in harm's way.
Wait For It ... And, There It Is
Before the playoffs tipped off, my roommate asked me how I thought my beloved Hawks might fair this postseason. Having watched them play choppy, undisciplined basketball for much of the season, and knowing full well that Larry Drew has pretty much made a mockery of the term "head coach", I replied with a less-than-glowing assessment. In fact, my words were downright dripping with an unsubtle mixture of vitriol and melancholy. After all, we were going up against Orlando again. The team that swept us by a cumulative 101 points in round 2 last year. "Aw, come on," my buddy said. "Have a little faith, man!"
And for four games, I tried, I really did. When Jamal Crawford suddenly turned into Steve Kerr off the bench, and we allowed Dwight Howard to impose his will but were STILL winning games, I started getting some zany ideas. The Magic couldn't shoot, and we couldn't miss. In a blink, we were up three-one. We could do this, right?
And then, last night, the other shoe dropped with a momentum-swinging, confidence-killing thud.
The NBA: Where "Crap, I knew it!" Happens.
As evidenced by its having been relegated to NBA TV, this has been an ugly mess of a series, the antithesis of a marquee matchup. Sadly, the Hawks redefined "ugly mess" in game five. Josh Smith and Al Horford were at least respectable in defeat, combining for 31 points and 25 boards, but the rest of Atlanta's roster was a wasteland of production on both ends of the floor. We knew Jamal Crawford, our bench rock star and life support in games 1-4, was probably regressing to the mean at some point, but "to the mean" would have been a lot better than the 8 points and 1 rebound he put up last night. When Marvin Williams is your second-highest scorer in a game (12 pts.), it bodes ill for your chances. Depressing stat of the night: the only Hawks with a +/- on the good side of nil all played 8 or less minutes. Everyone else: abysmal.
The defining play of the game didn't seem like much when it happened, but in retrospect, it was an encapsulation of the Hawks' myriad problems. The Magic already had a commanding lead, on their way to an eventual 101-76 rout, when reserve J.J. Redick checked in. He's been ice-cold all series. A glacier of uselessness. You know how he snapped out of the Ice Age? He drove the lane. J.J. Redick, the one-dimensional licensed sniper, barreled into the paint, blew by everyone, and banked in a reverse layup. J.J. REDICK!!!! Nobody on the Hawks collapsed the interior on the play, no help defense came over. He took it to the hoop unmolested and nailed the shot, kick-starting Orlando's thus-far silent bench and finding his own stroke in the process. How did Atlanta let it happen? Because they'd already quit. Sure, they were in a hole, but there was plenty of clock left. The shoreline was still in sight, but they chose to drown rather than keep swimming for it. That moment was indicative of what we've seen all year from this team. Let's be honest, when J.J. Redick makes that play on you, you've lost any and all claim to complimentary adjectives regarding your pluckiness or ability to handle adversity.
If this were a different team, or I were a less rational fan, the loss would be easier to shake off. "One game at a time" and such. But the heart of the matter, as exemplified by the Redick play, was voiced succinctly last night by the opposition. In a post-game interview, Magic coach Stan Van Gundy, referring to the Magic's perimeter shooters finally getting it going after four games of near-total ineffectiveness, said "this isn't an aberration. We've been doing this for four years. The first four games were the aberration." I'm inclined to agree with him, and not just vis-a-vis Orlando's gunning acumen. The Hawks played above themselves for the past four games; last night was closer to reality. After a hopeful respite, the lack of identity and the rudderless coaching we've witnessed all season surfaced with a vengeance. Too much glorified pick-up play, too little coherence. Yes, Orlando shot 11 of 26 from deep, and there's nothing the Hawks, who don't close well on outside shooters, could have done about that. And yes, Joe Johnson and Jamal Crawford will probably play better tomorrow at Phillips Arena (I hope), but the fundamental problems that were so glaringly evident last night aren't going away.
It's true that the Hawks could still win this series. Even with the tectonic momentum shift Orlando perpetrated last night, Atlanta just needs to pull out one more win to advance. But if we can't muster any fight against J.J. Redick, what happens if we're trailing the Bulls with the tornado that is Derrick Rose on the floor in round 2? Nothing good, that's what. Game 5 was, unfortunately, "Hawks basketball" in its most recently prevalent incarnation. Their only shot is to jettison that indifference and carelessness before it's too late. Problem: this ain't that kind of team, Larry Drew ain't that kind of coach, and the whole thing looks pretty futile right now. Sigh, at least we can watch incredible basketball somewhere for the next two months, even if it's nowhere near the ATL.
And for four games, I tried, I really did. When Jamal Crawford suddenly turned into Steve Kerr off the bench, and we allowed Dwight Howard to impose his will but were STILL winning games, I started getting some zany ideas. The Magic couldn't shoot, and we couldn't miss. In a blink, we were up three-one. We could do this, right?
And then, last night, the other shoe dropped with a momentum-swinging, confidence-killing thud.
The NBA: Where "Crap, I knew it!" Happens.
As evidenced by its having been relegated to NBA TV, this has been an ugly mess of a series, the antithesis of a marquee matchup. Sadly, the Hawks redefined "ugly mess" in game five. Josh Smith and Al Horford were at least respectable in defeat, combining for 31 points and 25 boards, but the rest of Atlanta's roster was a wasteland of production on both ends of the floor. We knew Jamal Crawford, our bench rock star and life support in games 1-4, was probably regressing to the mean at some point, but "to the mean" would have been a lot better than the 8 points and 1 rebound he put up last night. When Marvin Williams is your second-highest scorer in a game (12 pts.), it bodes ill for your chances. Depressing stat of the night: the only Hawks with a +/- on the good side of nil all played 8 or less minutes. Everyone else: abysmal.
The defining play of the game didn't seem like much when it happened, but in retrospect, it was an encapsulation of the Hawks' myriad problems. The Magic already had a commanding lead, on their way to an eventual 101-76 rout, when reserve J.J. Redick checked in. He's been ice-cold all series. A glacier of uselessness. You know how he snapped out of the Ice Age? He drove the lane. J.J. Redick, the one-dimensional licensed sniper, barreled into the paint, blew by everyone, and banked in a reverse layup. J.J. REDICK!!!! Nobody on the Hawks collapsed the interior on the play, no help defense came over. He took it to the hoop unmolested and nailed the shot, kick-starting Orlando's thus-far silent bench and finding his own stroke in the process. How did Atlanta let it happen? Because they'd already quit. Sure, they were in a hole, but there was plenty of clock left. The shoreline was still in sight, but they chose to drown rather than keep swimming for it. That moment was indicative of what we've seen all year from this team. Let's be honest, when J.J. Redick makes that play on you, you've lost any and all claim to complimentary adjectives regarding your pluckiness or ability to handle adversity.
If this were a different team, or I were a less rational fan, the loss would be easier to shake off. "One game at a time" and such. But the heart of the matter, as exemplified by the Redick play, was voiced succinctly last night by the opposition. In a post-game interview, Magic coach Stan Van Gundy, referring to the Magic's perimeter shooters finally getting it going after four games of near-total ineffectiveness, said "this isn't an aberration. We've been doing this for four years. The first four games were the aberration." I'm inclined to agree with him, and not just vis-a-vis Orlando's gunning acumen. The Hawks played above themselves for the past four games; last night was closer to reality. After a hopeful respite, the lack of identity and the rudderless coaching we've witnessed all season surfaced with a vengeance. Too much glorified pick-up play, too little coherence. Yes, Orlando shot 11 of 26 from deep, and there's nothing the Hawks, who don't close well on outside shooters, could have done about that. And yes, Joe Johnson and Jamal Crawford will probably play better tomorrow at Phillips Arena (I hope), but the fundamental problems that were so glaringly evident last night aren't going away.
It's true that the Hawks could still win this series. Even with the tectonic momentum shift Orlando perpetrated last night, Atlanta just needs to pull out one more win to advance. But if we can't muster any fight against J.J. Redick, what happens if we're trailing the Bulls with the tornado that is Derrick Rose on the floor in round 2? Nothing good, that's what. Game 5 was, unfortunately, "Hawks basketball" in its most recently prevalent incarnation. Their only shot is to jettison that indifference and carelessness before it's too late. Problem: this ain't that kind of team, Larry Drew ain't that kind of coach, and the whole thing looks pretty futile right now. Sigh, at least we can watch incredible basketball somewhere for the next two months, even if it's nowhere near the ATL.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Forget What You Know
Tonight was one of those all-too rare occasions where I was reminded why I love sports this much. It's easy to grow cynical when things like the on-going NFL lockout demonstrate just how selfish and petulant people can be when squabbling over amounts of money that would make Scrooge McDuck blush. Or when something as callous and ill-conceived as "The Decision" happens. Or when already-talented baseball players defile the game by taking PEDs. So I'd like to thank Brandon Roy for this evening's display of "Holy #&$^%!" basketball.
I've actually been waiting for something like this since the playoffs started. I've been salivating over them since the matchups were set, and for the most part, they've been every bit as stellar as I'd dared to hope. It's been one jaw-dropping performance after another. Derrick Rose, Chris Paul, Carmelo Anthony, Rajon Rondo, LeBron James, the list goes on. That said, we officially got our first transcendent "I will remember watching this for the rest of my life because it was bigger than the game" moment of the 2011 postseason tonight.
There's an old saying that in order to truly learn, you have to forget what you know. Well, Brandon Roy forgot everything. He forgot his mistake of publicly complaining about a lack of minutes a few days ago. He forgot that what was once destined to be a brilliant career has been considerably dulled in its luster by repeated injuries. Most importantly, he forgot that NBA players with two surgically repaired knees aren't supposed to turn into surgeons themselves. After a truly abysmal start to the game, Portland trailed the Dallas Mavericks 67-44 in the third quarter when Roy started asserting his will and taking a scalpel to the Mavs. Hitting improbable jumpers, driving the lane with abandon, and ignoring what was probably a dire strain on his knees, the man simply refused to quit. When he got rolling, you could feel the momentum shift through the TV. It didn't matter that he couldn't elevate as he once did on shots, or that his first step was diminished, Roy just started burying buckets. A whole heaping bunch of them. Really, it was kind of like watching Jordan in the '98 finals again. He hit shot after shot after shot, including a beautiful step-back jumper to narrow the gap to 77-70 and a killer finish at the rim to make it 80-74. He dished out savvy assists to teammates and traded dueling baskets with Dallas' Shawn Marion. He was flat-out unstoppable. And then the real magic began.
With 1:06 on the game clock, it already felt like his game, but Roy's 4-point play here was a certifiable "goosebump" moment. Foot on the gas, game on the line, he drained a three and drew a foul on the shot. The ensuing free throw tied the game at 82 all. The Portland crowd, already at a fever pitch, absolutely came unhinged. I'd guess decibel levels in the building were something like what you'd experience standing directly in front of a jet engine. After a dubious decision by the refs to overturn an out-of-bounds call in Portland's favor, the Blazers came back up the floor, and everyone watching knew exactly where the ball was going, in whose hands the fate of the game rested ...
And Brandon Roy nailed it. Old-school Tim Duncan-esque banker off the glass, cool as you please. The final basket to cap an epic night of work. 84-82 Portland lead. Jason Kidd missed a 3 for Dallas, and then Jason Terry did the same as the clock ran out. Final: 84-82 Blazers. Roy's teammate Gerald Wallace after the game: "When people ask me what did I do in the fourth quarter, I'll tell them I stood in the corner and watched The Brandon Roy Show." Truth.
There's an episode of the short-lived TV show "Sports Night" in which a character utters the line, "There's nothing like seeing a guy realize he's not quite done yet." Well, there really, really isn't. Tonight Brandon Roy, he of the unfair injuries and the uncertain career, proved pretty clearly that he's not quite done yet. He may spend the balance of his career playing bench minutes, he may never be the player he could have been. But for this evening, he chose to forget those things, and generate some historical, incredible fireworks instead. I'll never forget watching it happen. Thanks, Brandon.
I've actually been waiting for something like this since the playoffs started. I've been salivating over them since the matchups were set, and for the most part, they've been every bit as stellar as I'd dared to hope. It's been one jaw-dropping performance after another. Derrick Rose, Chris Paul, Carmelo Anthony, Rajon Rondo, LeBron James, the list goes on. That said, we officially got our first transcendent "I will remember watching this for the rest of my life because it was bigger than the game" moment of the 2011 postseason tonight.
There's an old saying that in order to truly learn, you have to forget what you know. Well, Brandon Roy forgot everything. He forgot his mistake of publicly complaining about a lack of minutes a few days ago. He forgot that what was once destined to be a brilliant career has been considerably dulled in its luster by repeated injuries. Most importantly, he forgot that NBA players with two surgically repaired knees aren't supposed to turn into surgeons themselves. After a truly abysmal start to the game, Portland trailed the Dallas Mavericks 67-44 in the third quarter when Roy started asserting his will and taking a scalpel to the Mavs. Hitting improbable jumpers, driving the lane with abandon, and ignoring what was probably a dire strain on his knees, the man simply refused to quit. When he got rolling, you could feel the momentum shift through the TV. It didn't matter that he couldn't elevate as he once did on shots, or that his first step was diminished, Roy just started burying buckets. A whole heaping bunch of them. Really, it was kind of like watching Jordan in the '98 finals again. He hit shot after shot after shot, including a beautiful step-back jumper to narrow the gap to 77-70 and a killer finish at the rim to make it 80-74. He dished out savvy assists to teammates and traded dueling baskets with Dallas' Shawn Marion. He was flat-out unstoppable. And then the real magic began.
With 1:06 on the game clock, it already felt like his game, but Roy's 4-point play here was a certifiable "goosebump" moment. Foot on the gas, game on the line, he drained a three and drew a foul on the shot. The ensuing free throw tied the game at 82 all. The Portland crowd, already at a fever pitch, absolutely came unhinged. I'd guess decibel levels in the building were something like what you'd experience standing directly in front of a jet engine. After a dubious decision by the refs to overturn an out-of-bounds call in Portland's favor, the Blazers came back up the floor, and everyone watching knew exactly where the ball was going, in whose hands the fate of the game rested ...
And Brandon Roy nailed it. Old-school Tim Duncan-esque banker off the glass, cool as you please. The final basket to cap an epic night of work. 84-82 Portland lead. Jason Kidd missed a 3 for Dallas, and then Jason Terry did the same as the clock ran out. Final: 84-82 Blazers. Roy's teammate Gerald Wallace after the game: "When people ask me what did I do in the fourth quarter, I'll tell them I stood in the corner and watched The Brandon Roy Show." Truth.
There's an episode of the short-lived TV show "Sports Night" in which a character utters the line, "There's nothing like seeing a guy realize he's not quite done yet." Well, there really, really isn't. Tonight Brandon Roy, he of the unfair injuries and the uncertain career, proved pretty clearly that he's not quite done yet. He may spend the balance of his career playing bench minutes, he may never be the player he could have been. But for this evening, he chose to forget those things, and generate some historical, incredible fireworks instead. I'll never forget watching it happen. Thanks, Brandon.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Bonds Of Verity.
In a recent USA Today column, writer Christine Brennan made the case that Bud Selig needed to take the action of stripping Barry Bonds of the all-time homer mark and return it to Hammerin' Hank Aaron, and strip Bonds, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa of their "records" that shattered Roger Maris' single-season homerun total of 61. While some of Brennan's rhetoric came across as a bit extreme, she did bring up the entirely valid point that when Olympic events are found to have been compromised by PED's, the IOC simply strips the offender of the record and the medal. She said nothing about Hall-Of-Fame implications, or about what should or should not be done with other players either convicted or suspected of steroid use. Mainly she was calling out the Commish on the premise that milestones like the ones in question ought to be in the history books under their untainted (and in her eyes rightful) owners.
It's amazing that this angle of the Steroid Era hasn't gotten more play. While I recall a mild quotient of public outcry when the records were actually broken, it seems like much of the ensuing press and op-ed coverage has revolved around protecting the sanctity of Cooperstown, as opposed to the records themselves. I'd like to salute Christine Brennan for her suggestions, and humbly add that she didn't go quite far enough in offering an all-encompassing solution to MLB's struggle with the historical placement of its most inglorious period.
Of the primary four North-American sports, baseball is the one where records matter the most. In the NFL, NHL, and NBA, the record setters are heavily dependent on their teammates to reach their lofty historical aeries. John Stockton's prolific assist totals probably don't happen without Karl Malone to feed the rock to inside. Joe Montana's greatness probably looks a little less great if the 49ers had never drafted Jerry Rice. But in baseball, especially with hitting and pitching records, it's up to individuals to define themselves. There's no such thing as an "assist" on a homerun, no offensive linemen opening a seam for the fastball to reach the plate. And because of this uniqueness, despite being a "team game", baseball's records are the most well-known and recognized in sports, even by casual or non-fans. Allow me to demonstrate.
Remember when Brett Farve broke the record for consecutive NFL starts? Me neither. I honestly only know he holds that record because the media brought it up every time we had another will he/won't he come back scenario. How about Ray Allen breaking Reggie Miller's all-time three-point record? I do remember that, mostly because a) I'm a basketball junkie, b) it just happened this season, and c) I live in Boston where things like that swarm all local media and dominate barroom talk for about a week after they happen for a Beantown player. But unless you're a hoops fan, you probably barely registered it. (Some of my closest sports-addicted friends just shrugged. "Meh. Big deal.") By contrast, the media went psychotic when it was hyping and chronicling the McGwire/Sosa race to break Maris' record, and Bonds' chase of Aaron's. They did the same thing when Cal Ripken, Jr. finally broke Lou Gehrig's consecutive starts streak. It wasn't just ESPN and SI, either. The weeks leading up to those events were covered by every news organization in the western world, from CNN to CBS and everything in between. Put it this way: my mom isn't what you'd call a "student of the game" (though she is a fan), but when those various milestones were in jeopardy, she knew exactly what was going on, and how monumental it was.
Baseball's individual records resonate like nothing else. It's a phenomenon unique to that game and that game only. Despite what TV ratings and revenue numbers will tell you about the NFL having usurped the "National Pastime" throne, every sports fan over the age of fifteen could instantly identify the numbers 61 (Maris' single-season homer record), 755 (Hank Aaron's career homer total), and 56 (Joe DiMaggio's consecutive-game hit streak). Honestly, I don't even know what the final numbers were for Bonds, McGwire, and Sosa, and I don't care. As for the "legitimate" records, I didn't have to look any of those up. They're too indelibly ingrained in my fan-psyche. But I'd have to go to Google to tell you how many career TD's Jerry Rice caught, or how many Brett Favre threw, or how many goals Wayne Gretzky scored in the NHL, even though I know that those people are the all-time leaders in those categories. (I don't have to look up Kareem's all-time NBA point total of 38,387, but again: I'm an NBA junkie.) The point is, the great records of baseball, the ultimate hallmarks of individual dedication and skill in sports, continue to hold sway over the public imagination. They are symbols of what we can achieve at our best, when the confluence of talent, focus, and sheer force of will reaches its apex. They absolutely do not belong in the hands of charlatans and cheaters, no matter how brilliant their careers have shined. So here's what needs to happen:
First, Bud Selig and MLB need to adopt Christine Brennan's suggestion, and re-award the single-season and all-time long ball records to Maris and Aaron, respectively. In addition, Andy Pettitte's post-season victory record (19) needs to be rescinded and officially given to John Smoltz, who holds the second-highest mark at 15 playoff wins, since Pettitte has admitted to past steroid use. History owes these men their due, and they ought not be deprived because some already-great ballplayers decided they needed to improve themselves through dubious means a generation or three later.
And second: we need to let all of the cheaters, liars, and scoundrels into the Hall Of Fame. (Yes, this article has partially been a convoluted excuse to get to this point, but hopefully I've made some other salient arguments along the way.) Isn't Cooperstown supposed to be an evolving museum, a malleable shrine to the history of baseball? And we're going to leave most of a generation of players out of it because they cheated, despite impacting the game in hugely important ways?
Picture the following scenario: sometime in the next 10-15 years, I get married and have a kid. When he or she is old enough to have been imbued with a deep and abiding love of sports, and to exhibit the first vestiges of a legitimate attention span, we make our first trip to Cooperstown. We pass an enjoyable few days meandering about the place, soaking in all the moments, personalities, teams, and historical significance The good and the great. And the bad. (I'm looking at you, Ty Cobb.) We marvel at Jackie Robinson's courage, Nolan Ryan's dominance, and Lou Gehrig's spirit. We linger over old pictures of Murderer's Row and grainy video of Bobby Thompson's "Shot Heard 'Round The World." We gaze in awe at Albert Pujols' career numbers, and admire accounts of the '04 Red Sox incredible breaking of an 86-year curse. And, of course, we reverently peruse the history of the Braves' 14 consecutive division titles. (I'm from Atlanta, deal with it.) On our way back to the car, I notice my child has an odd look. Face scrunched, deep in thought.
HK (Hypothetical Kid): Daddy, was baseball not very good when you were little?
Me: Um, it was actually great. I collected tons of baseball cards, which you're unfamiliar with, but trust me they were cool once. I went to games and cheered my heroes. I got a game ball from Roger Clemens one time.
HK: Who's Roger Clemens?
Me: He was one of the greatest pitchers of his generation.
HK: He wasn't in there.
Me (sighing): I know.
HK: Well, I was looking around. There's almost no one from when you were growing up. I just thought maybe the players were bad then, that's all.
Me: Well ... they weren't bad ballplayers, but a lot of them were bad men. (Insert long, rambling explanation of the Steroid Era here.)
If the current mentality regarding this issue holds, what you just read is a highly probable scenario. Presumably, real estate in Cooperstown is not so prohibitively expensive that MLB can't buy a little more. They ought to build a new wing on the Hall Of Fame for the Steroids Era. Explain exactly what happened, and why everything that transpired is suspect; but have the great players in there. And while we're embroiled in my imaginary scenario, let's put Pete Rose in too. His plaque can read like so: "One of the great competitors of the game, holder of the all-time hits record. Bet on games as a manager and disgraced himself and the sport." How hard is this?
And when all the exhibits are up in the new "Steroids" wing, just so I don't have to explain this whole mess to my future HK, here's one thing we make damn sure of: The career numbers of Bonds, McGwire, Sosa, Pettitte, A-Rod, and everyone else confirmed or highly suspected of cheating, are marked with huge, 159-point font that reads: INVALID. Roger Maris and Hammerin' Hank deserve nothing less.
It's amazing that this angle of the Steroid Era hasn't gotten more play. While I recall a mild quotient of public outcry when the records were actually broken, it seems like much of the ensuing press and op-ed coverage has revolved around protecting the sanctity of Cooperstown, as opposed to the records themselves. I'd like to salute Christine Brennan for her suggestions, and humbly add that she didn't go quite far enough in offering an all-encompassing solution to MLB's struggle with the historical placement of its most inglorious period.
Of the primary four North-American sports, baseball is the one where records matter the most. In the NFL, NHL, and NBA, the record setters are heavily dependent on their teammates to reach their lofty historical aeries. John Stockton's prolific assist totals probably don't happen without Karl Malone to feed the rock to inside. Joe Montana's greatness probably looks a little less great if the 49ers had never drafted Jerry Rice. But in baseball, especially with hitting and pitching records, it's up to individuals to define themselves. There's no such thing as an "assist" on a homerun, no offensive linemen opening a seam for the fastball to reach the plate. And because of this uniqueness, despite being a "team game", baseball's records are the most well-known and recognized in sports, even by casual or non-fans. Allow me to demonstrate.
Remember when Brett Farve broke the record for consecutive NFL starts? Me neither. I honestly only know he holds that record because the media brought it up every time we had another will he/won't he come back scenario. How about Ray Allen breaking Reggie Miller's all-time three-point record? I do remember that, mostly because a) I'm a basketball junkie, b) it just happened this season, and c) I live in Boston where things like that swarm all local media and dominate barroom talk for about a week after they happen for a Beantown player. But unless you're a hoops fan, you probably barely registered it. (Some of my closest sports-addicted friends just shrugged. "Meh. Big deal.") By contrast, the media went psychotic when it was hyping and chronicling the McGwire/Sosa race to break Maris' record, and Bonds' chase of Aaron's. They did the same thing when Cal Ripken, Jr. finally broke Lou Gehrig's consecutive starts streak. It wasn't just ESPN and SI, either. The weeks leading up to those events were covered by every news organization in the western world, from CNN to CBS and everything in between. Put it this way: my mom isn't what you'd call a "student of the game" (though she is a fan), but when those various milestones were in jeopardy, she knew exactly what was going on, and how monumental it was.
Baseball's individual records resonate like nothing else. It's a phenomenon unique to that game and that game only. Despite what TV ratings and revenue numbers will tell you about the NFL having usurped the "National Pastime" throne, every sports fan over the age of fifteen could instantly identify the numbers 61 (Maris' single-season homer record), 755 (Hank Aaron's career homer total), and 56 (Joe DiMaggio's consecutive-game hit streak). Honestly, I don't even know what the final numbers were for Bonds, McGwire, and Sosa, and I don't care. As for the "legitimate" records, I didn't have to look any of those up. They're too indelibly ingrained in my fan-psyche. But I'd have to go to Google to tell you how many career TD's Jerry Rice caught, or how many Brett Favre threw, or how many goals Wayne Gretzky scored in the NHL, even though I know that those people are the all-time leaders in those categories. (I don't have to look up Kareem's all-time NBA point total of 38,387, but again: I'm an NBA junkie.) The point is, the great records of baseball, the ultimate hallmarks of individual dedication and skill in sports, continue to hold sway over the public imagination. They are symbols of what we can achieve at our best, when the confluence of talent, focus, and sheer force of will reaches its apex. They absolutely do not belong in the hands of charlatans and cheaters, no matter how brilliant their careers have shined. So here's what needs to happen:
First, Bud Selig and MLB need to adopt Christine Brennan's suggestion, and re-award the single-season and all-time long ball records to Maris and Aaron, respectively. In addition, Andy Pettitte's post-season victory record (19) needs to be rescinded and officially given to John Smoltz, who holds the second-highest mark at 15 playoff wins, since Pettitte has admitted to past steroid use. History owes these men their due, and they ought not be deprived because some already-great ballplayers decided they needed to improve themselves through dubious means a generation or three later.
And second: we need to let all of the cheaters, liars, and scoundrels into the Hall Of Fame. (Yes, this article has partially been a convoluted excuse to get to this point, but hopefully I've made some other salient arguments along the way.) Isn't Cooperstown supposed to be an evolving museum, a malleable shrine to the history of baseball? And we're going to leave most of a generation of players out of it because they cheated, despite impacting the game in hugely important ways?
Picture the following scenario: sometime in the next 10-15 years, I get married and have a kid. When he or she is old enough to have been imbued with a deep and abiding love of sports, and to exhibit the first vestiges of a legitimate attention span, we make our first trip to Cooperstown. We pass an enjoyable few days meandering about the place, soaking in all the moments, personalities, teams, and historical significance The good and the great. And the bad. (I'm looking at you, Ty Cobb.) We marvel at Jackie Robinson's courage, Nolan Ryan's dominance, and Lou Gehrig's spirit. We linger over old pictures of Murderer's Row and grainy video of Bobby Thompson's "Shot Heard 'Round The World." We gaze in awe at Albert Pujols' career numbers, and admire accounts of the '04 Red Sox incredible breaking of an 86-year curse. And, of course, we reverently peruse the history of the Braves' 14 consecutive division titles. (I'm from Atlanta, deal with it.) On our way back to the car, I notice my child has an odd look. Face scrunched, deep in thought.
HK (Hypothetical Kid): Daddy, was baseball not very good when you were little?
Me: Um, it was actually great. I collected tons of baseball cards, which you're unfamiliar with, but trust me they were cool once. I went to games and cheered my heroes. I got a game ball from Roger Clemens one time.
HK: Who's Roger Clemens?
Me: He was one of the greatest pitchers of his generation.
HK: He wasn't in there.
Me (sighing): I know.
HK: Well, I was looking around. There's almost no one from when you were growing up. I just thought maybe the players were bad then, that's all.
Me: Well ... they weren't bad ballplayers, but a lot of them were bad men. (Insert long, rambling explanation of the Steroid Era here.)
If the current mentality regarding this issue holds, what you just read is a highly probable scenario. Presumably, real estate in Cooperstown is not so prohibitively expensive that MLB can't buy a little more. They ought to build a new wing on the Hall Of Fame for the Steroids Era. Explain exactly what happened, and why everything that transpired is suspect; but have the great players in there. And while we're embroiled in my imaginary scenario, let's put Pete Rose in too. His plaque can read like so: "One of the great competitors of the game, holder of the all-time hits record. Bet on games as a manager and disgraced himself and the sport." How hard is this?
And when all the exhibits are up in the new "Steroids" wing, just so I don't have to explain this whole mess to my future HK, here's one thing we make damn sure of: The career numbers of Bonds, McGwire, Sosa, Pettitte, A-Rod, and everyone else confirmed or highly suspected of cheating, are marked with huge, 159-point font that reads: INVALID. Roger Maris and Hammerin' Hank deserve nothing less.
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