There’s no battle per se for the soul of the NBA. The NBA doesn’t have a soul. But if there was a battle for a certain soul that doesn’t actually exist, then that battle is being waged in the trenches of halftime shows and the choppy blood stained seas of Twitter, in superfluous sideline interviews that nobody anywhere wants to see and a host of counterfactuals and jewelry tallying. It is being fought by reactionaries posing as revolutionaries hiding behind silly-ass acronyms and by revolutionaries who actually are revolutionaries, also hiding behind silly ass acronyms. It’s a schism on par with the Popes of Rome and the Popes of Avignon, of grindcore and pop punk. You’ve got a bunch of nerds going toe-to-toe with the krakens of conventional wisdom and sort of winning. Everyone is getting in on this: Neophyte fanboys, Kobe partisans, grizzled color commentators, former stars cum television analysts, different sorts of GMs (there are brilliant ones and dumb ones), prized assistant coaches, owners thinking so far outside every box there is, and more...there is a lot of cacophony going on in this hardwood culture war.
This is the war between
those who want their basketball to resemble football, and those who want it to
resemble fútbol. Call it Millennial basketball vs. Peloponnesian War basketball. In the blue corner wearing normal clothes you’ve got the passing friendly, exquisitely
spaced, hyper skilled San Antonio Spurs model. In the red corner wearing a suit of chainmail and cowboy boots you’ve got a
side that venerates a model built on the blueprint of individual prowess and
grit, nostalgic for the good ol’ days of illegal zones and hand-checking,
nostalgic indeed for if not the Bad Boys Pistons themselves, for the idea of
the Bad Boys Pistons. Basketball is soft. Even the Socialist Europeans can excel at it! It’s not a man’s sport anymore.
There isn’t enough pain. Three-pointers are still looked upon with a certain
mistrust by this spartan school of thought. Even Gregg Popovich, the greatest coach we've got, doesn't care for the three point revolution! The old guard, which is not as fringe as Clever NBA Twitter might have us believe, has become an anachronistic bunch desperately clinging to homemade muskets when homemade machine guns are available. This cognitive dissonance is good for laughs sometimes. This is an attitude exemplified by a lot of people on the World Wide
Web laughing at Byron Scott and his superstitious mumblings of three-pointers
not winning championships. Charles Barkley, Shaq, and Kenny Smith take this
Luddism to an art at times, that is, when they are not making fun of each
other’s shoes or waistlines or giggling in general. They expect something different from the center position from what we are getting these days. They expect positional purity. Attacks on conventional wisdom is an attack on them. There’s so much saccharine longing for the good old days. It puts me in mind of when conservatives long for the stability and prosperity of the 1950s, with the friendly milk man and the white picket fences, and oh never you mind the water fountains certain people weren't allowed to sip from or the collective hysteria and paranoia over the C word (Communism of course!).
What I gather from listening to these talking heads is that basketball used to be such a muscular sport, a sport Norman Mailer and Ernest Hemingway would condone, a sport of single-mindedly backing your man down with your ass. When they talk like this, it sounds as if they are saying this is the true game. This stuff the kids are playing now, well, it's sort of like basketball, but it's not their game. Their game was a slow game, a deliberate game, a war zone, a game the Memphis Grizzlies almost sort of play, a game for brawlers. I get it. I miss the days of dominant big men with awesome post-moves too and I might not mind perhaps scaling back the itchy trigger finger on flagrant fouls, but the reluctance of this august cohort to give up the ghost creates a strange disconnect between the so-called “experts” and the burgeoning and inclusive hoops intelligentsia caste, guys who understand the ins and outs and what-have-yous of modern basketball and also guys who are super good at spreadsheets and data entry and flattening the human condition. It's maddening to hear things like Michael Jordan's weird declaration that only four current NBA players could possibly have thrived in his era, but it is also sad and revealing. It's no doubt an elitist way to take a stand, but these old cats are simply defending something precious to them, something that seems doomed, that holy time when they mattered more to the game than the math.
This is an old boy's club at the end of the day, just like Weird Twitter, the Manhattan socialite scene, and mainstream political machinery. It's the same as the way Joe Scarborough and Chris Matthews and other mouth breathers reacted so poorly to Nate Silver, because they want their spittle themed bluster to have equal footing with aggregate polling. Byron Scott is a dinosaur wandering around the late Cretaceous looking up at the sky, waiting for the inevitable meteor to take him off the set. But he's going to use his clout to instill his code into a few more kids before his name is put on the blacklist. His NBA is not my NBA, but my NBA is not the NBA of most people, in fact, it is probably dumber or at the very least weirder than most people's NBA. My NBA is about real emotional trash and jokes. His NBA is about respect and tradition and championships. I am glad Byron Scott is not the coach of a team I care about, but it takes all sorts, as one old saying goes. Another old saying: Let the Lord of Chaos rule. Throw those in a blender and make yourself a basketball milkshake.
What I gather from listening to these talking heads is that basketball used to be such a muscular sport, a sport Norman Mailer and Ernest Hemingway would condone, a sport of single-mindedly backing your man down with your ass. When they talk like this, it sounds as if they are saying this is the true game. This stuff the kids are playing now, well, it's sort of like basketball, but it's not their game. Their game was a slow game, a deliberate game, a war zone, a game the Memphis Grizzlies almost sort of play, a game for brawlers. I get it. I miss the days of dominant big men with awesome post-moves too and I might not mind perhaps scaling back the itchy trigger finger on flagrant fouls, but the reluctance of this august cohort to give up the ghost creates a strange disconnect between the so-called “experts” and the burgeoning and inclusive hoops intelligentsia caste, guys who understand the ins and outs and what-have-yous of modern basketball and also guys who are super good at spreadsheets and data entry and flattening the human condition. It's maddening to hear things like Michael Jordan's weird declaration that only four current NBA players could possibly have thrived in his era, but it is also sad and revealing. It's no doubt an elitist way to take a stand, but these old cats are simply defending something precious to them, something that seems doomed, that holy time when they mattered more to the game than the math.
This is an old boy's club at the end of the day, just like Weird Twitter, the Manhattan socialite scene, and mainstream political machinery. It's the same as the way Joe Scarborough and Chris Matthews and other mouth breathers reacted so poorly to Nate Silver, because they want their spittle themed bluster to have equal footing with aggregate polling. Byron Scott is a dinosaur wandering around the late Cretaceous looking up at the sky, waiting for the inevitable meteor to take him off the set. But he's going to use his clout to instill his code into a few more kids before his name is put on the blacklist. His NBA is not my NBA, but my NBA is not the NBA of most people, in fact, it is probably dumber or at the very least weirder than most people's NBA. My NBA is about real emotional trash and jokes. His NBA is about respect and tradition and championships. I am glad Byron Scott is not the coach of a team I care about, but it takes all sorts, as one old saying goes. Another old saying: Let the Lord of Chaos rule. Throw those in a blender and make yourself a basketball milkshake.
To reiterate: the current philosophical disagreement between people who think excessive three-pointers are witchcraft (bad!) and those who think three-pointers are wizardry (good!) is not a war for any one particular pretend soul. I'm equally uncomfortable pretending this is a game of numbers and discardable faceless assets as I am with the idea that a magical player must adhere to some arbitrary standard set by a man playing an almost unrecognizable game twenty years ago. There is a third way. And a fourth way. The tide is unquestionably turning away from the old timers, sometimes in sinister ways as in the case of the burgeoning biometrics revolution and sometimes in just more dorky ways, as fan sites purporting to be experts in that deep analytic swamp have multiplied tenfold.
It is the Houston Rockets, under the guidance of Daryl Morey, that have become the official unofficial Moneyball squad of the NBA. They like layups, dunks, three pointers and drawing a lot of fouls. This is the model of NBA efficiency, no fat and no nonsense, just getting dudes on base in good position for runs. Certain sorts of modern NBA fans will even find the thought of long two point shots so odious that they will tweet disparagingly after each such attempt! There's a new rule in town, and the rule is only LaMarcus Aldridge is allowed to take long two pointers without sacrificing his hard earned dignity.
But back to the Rockets, and their basic revolution. I hate watching the Houston Rockets play. There's no joy. It's like watching a basketball game before the special effects are added. It's all James Harden standing in front of a green screen and giving the camera a sort of enthusiastic thumbs up before ramming into someone like Corey Maggette and expecting a bonus on his next paycheck. Not everyone is required to agree with me, but the Rockets I have watched these past few years are some stale and soulless shit. Like a spreadsheet. Like data entry. Like flattening the human condition. How much of that is Kevin McHale reacting to orders from on high and James Harden's naturally unpleasant style of play I cannot be sure. Some of this may just be bitterness. I'm tired of seeing the Rockets clobber the Warriors again and again, season after season, rosters be damned. And yet, this is an exaggeration. This is the preferred method of madness in Houston under the regime of Mitt Romney supporter Daryl Morey, but midrange shots happen, because James Harden can hit those with ease. Dwight sometimes mixes it up with attempts at back to the basket chicanery, because the old guard laughing at him under the studio lights have told him the only way to win championships is a dominant center that can score a hundred points and corral two hundred rebounds a game. These guys have to prove many things to many people.
It takes all sorts.
For many years one of my favorite players to watch was Monta Ellis. I understand, in some minor way, the fury Kobe Bryant's fans feel seeing their once proud icon savaged by a new set of organizing principles less kind to his brand. I watched the same hyenas pounce on Monta for being Monta, that is to say, being great, but not great in the way that Daryl Morey would have much use for. Monta could do amazing things on the court, things that made me happy, made me cheer, but he was trash according to the stat sheet and trash according to a slew of smart people, wise people, people who generally knew their stuff. It confused me. I love Monta Ellis. I'm glad the Warriors traded him so that Stephen Curry could become who he became. It's been satisfying to see his reputation rejuvenated in Dallas. But it's not like he learned to be awesome just last season. The analytics gang, so wise in most ways, also adhere to their own set of hoary truisms, which must be challenged from time to time.
I do want to live in a world with headlines like The Relationship Between Usage and Average Distance to Closest Defender but I will punch myself in the face before ever attempting to write something like that. It just isn't the thought that keeps me up at night, pondering usage and the average distance to the closest defender, is what I'm saying. Byron Scott's NBA is not mine, and neither is the NBA where stats can prove Anthony Davis is the not the future of this league. There's room for both science and faith in this thing. I want the NBA to be more soccer than football (aesthetically, no need for hooliganism and insane racism, please!). I want the future. I want guidelines instead of rules, spirituality instead of religion. I want a big table for a big group, a coalition of the willing to watch. Mark Deeks and his superlative salary cap studies is at that table, and Zach Lowe's surgeon like play dissections, and Woj bombs, and guys who run off-brand team blogs, but also the guys who wouldn't know what eFG% is if it bit them on the face. I want the fan-fiction of Corbin Smith, and the insanity of the Classical, and yes, even the cocaine fueled ramblings and what-kind-of-life-must-you-have-lived pop culture references of Bill Simmons. I want people that don't matter, such as myself and Dave, to have a place at this table, even if we're just in the corner, eating the scraps and trying to figure out a way to get netw3rk to re-tweet us. Byron Scott is also at the table. I don't understand him and he doesn't understand me, but "I wouldn't bother with these questions if I didn't sense some spiritual connection. We may not be the same, but it's not like we're from different planets. We both love this game so much we can hardly fucking stand it."
It is the Houston Rockets, under the guidance of Daryl Morey, that have become the official unofficial Moneyball squad of the NBA. They like layups, dunks, three pointers and drawing a lot of fouls. This is the model of NBA efficiency, no fat and no nonsense, just getting dudes on base in good position for runs. Certain sorts of modern NBA fans will even find the thought of long two point shots so odious that they will tweet disparagingly after each such attempt! There's a new rule in town, and the rule is only LaMarcus Aldridge is allowed to take long two pointers without sacrificing his hard earned dignity.
But back to the Rockets, and their basic revolution. I hate watching the Houston Rockets play. There's no joy. It's like watching a basketball game before the special effects are added. It's all James Harden standing in front of a green screen and giving the camera a sort of enthusiastic thumbs up before ramming into someone like Corey Maggette and expecting a bonus on his next paycheck. Not everyone is required to agree with me, but the Rockets I have watched these past few years are some stale and soulless shit. Like a spreadsheet. Like data entry. Like flattening the human condition. How much of that is Kevin McHale reacting to orders from on high and James Harden's naturally unpleasant style of play I cannot be sure. Some of this may just be bitterness. I'm tired of seeing the Rockets clobber the Warriors again and again, season after season, rosters be damned. And yet, this is an exaggeration. This is the preferred method of madness in Houston under the regime of Mitt Romney supporter Daryl Morey, but midrange shots happen, because James Harden can hit those with ease. Dwight sometimes mixes it up with attempts at back to the basket chicanery, because the old guard laughing at him under the studio lights have told him the only way to win championships is a dominant center that can score a hundred points and corral two hundred rebounds a game. These guys have to prove many things to many people.
It takes all sorts.
For many years one of my favorite players to watch was Monta Ellis. I understand, in some minor way, the fury Kobe Bryant's fans feel seeing their once proud icon savaged by a new set of organizing principles less kind to his brand. I watched the same hyenas pounce on Monta for being Monta, that is to say, being great, but not great in the way that Daryl Morey would have much use for. Monta could do amazing things on the court, things that made me happy, made me cheer, but he was trash according to the stat sheet and trash according to a slew of smart people, wise people, people who generally knew their stuff. It confused me. I love Monta Ellis. I'm glad the Warriors traded him so that Stephen Curry could become who he became. It's been satisfying to see his reputation rejuvenated in Dallas. But it's not like he learned to be awesome just last season. The analytics gang, so wise in most ways, also adhere to their own set of hoary truisms, which must be challenged from time to time.
I do want to live in a world with headlines like The Relationship Between Usage and Average Distance to Closest Defender but I will punch myself in the face before ever attempting to write something like that. It just isn't the thought that keeps me up at night, pondering usage and the average distance to the closest defender, is what I'm saying. Byron Scott's NBA is not mine, and neither is the NBA where stats can prove Anthony Davis is the not the future of this league. There's room for both science and faith in this thing. I want the NBA to be more soccer than football (aesthetically, no need for hooliganism and insane racism, please!). I want the future. I want guidelines instead of rules, spirituality instead of religion. I want a big table for a big group, a coalition of the willing to watch. Mark Deeks and his superlative salary cap studies is at that table, and Zach Lowe's surgeon like play dissections, and Woj bombs, and guys who run off-brand team blogs, but also the guys who wouldn't know what eFG% is if it bit them on the face. I want the fan-fiction of Corbin Smith, and the insanity of the Classical, and yes, even the cocaine fueled ramblings and what-kind-of-life-must-you-have-lived pop culture references of Bill Simmons. I want people that don't matter, such as myself and Dave, to have a place at this table, even if we're just in the corner, eating the scraps and trying to figure out a way to get netw3rk to re-tweet us. Byron Scott is also at the table. I don't understand him and he doesn't understand me, but "I wouldn't bother with these questions if I didn't sense some spiritual connection. We may not be the same, but it's not like we're from different planets. We both love this game so much we can hardly fucking stand it."
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