Bron and Blatt's Bogus Journey

Somehow in all the hoopla around Byron Scott and Derek Fisher’s adherence to “systems," we missed that David Blatt is a system guy. How exactly that system manifests I think no one knows, but what we did see last night were signals that no one is quite sure how to execute this mysterious system yet. People are passing excessively. Defense collapsed to orbiting around the paint like unexcited electrons. In the Cavaliers we see something that should be and something that isn’t yet.

I wouldn’t sell my Cavs stock yet, but maybe there’s hubris in the idea that a championship team can be built, just like that. The Howard-Kobe-Nash "There Are No Second Acts in American Lives" Lakers would suggest as much. Caveats aside, a lot has changed, and these things don’t take immediately. The Venn diagram of bad shooting nights converged. Now might be a chance to get on the bandwagon, during the inevitable Sportscenter slump.

Elsewhere Russell Westbrook is injured again. Scott Brooks is daily asked to turn water to wine, and he manages an average of Welch’s Sparkling Grape. I’m not sure what more there is to say about Oklahoma injuries. Oh—of course—Perry Jones can do pretty things with a basketball when he wants to.

Among the assorted thoughts we have Steve “DEVELOPERS” Ballmer looking like no owner does—genuinely enthusiastic about his team. We forget, from time to time, what that enthusiasm looks like or that it’s possible, as normally it seems years of billions have worn the owners' brains’ pleasure centers too thin. But here Ballmer was, positively roaring with every make, and I really want to congratulate the man. Not merely for the show he puts on, but because he seems to be one of the rare few that has converted money into genuine happiness. He is an alchemist of our time.

Stray note from that game: the NBA Review Room appears to have a larger budget than NASA now. 

Finally, let’s talk about the Magic. Ben Gordon seemed to take my last judgment on him to heart—I inhabit a fantasy world in which Ben Gordon reads my blog and takes every word personally—and he was the only reason the Magic came close. They were outplayed throughout, yet Ben was more efficient than expected; he brought what was needed.

That being said, I’ll confess I drifted through the third quarter of this game, and most of the fourth. Hope seemed completely out of reach. If you’re Leaguepassing, throw on the soundtrack to Hotline Miami and watch Nene take Vucevic for a foul in slow motion, have your own little psychedelic journey. Think about Andre Miller’s dignity and professionalism in the face of time, relentless and unmerciful.

Do this until Fournier’s WHAT THE WHAT three with 3:26 left in the fourth, when a win transitioned from the realm of the unimaginable to being on that shelf you can’t quite reach without a stool. Ride that hope until the bitter, fouling-spiced-with-trips-to-the-line end. Paul Pierce brought his particular brand of Truth. Nene Aikido wrist-flicked Tobias Harris to the ground, with no foul call. Bit by bit the game slipped away again. 

Wee Little Elfrid Payton was benched down the stretch for Luke Ridnour, and justifiably so. Ridnour should take the lead until further notice. Also Dwayne Dedmon didn’t look great, thanks to Marcin Gortat. 

In general, as in games previous, watching the Magic has not been a whole lot of fun. But I’m doing it. For you guys. We’re all in this together.

-David

Midweek Update -- Some Basketball Happened

Sports fans exhibit a certain resilience, innately. Unless you came into the NBA as a Spurs fan within the last fifteen months or so, you’ve experienced your fair share of disappointments. Even in the losses, we carve out our personal wins: “It was crazy that the Royals even made it this far,” “The Lakers are rebuilding,” “Think what the Lions would be like if all of their players were on the field,” and so forth. 

We find ourselves reading blogs like these not because we follow winning teams. We hardly need the mildly-employed man telling us how good such-and-such could be when we’re fully immersed in the glow of excellence. We follow these things for potential. We want to be reassured we were in the right places, fully prepared when the right players break out. We want to say we expected it. We want to be the Dutchman, contentedly unloading coffee beans and tobacco leaves from his ship after months of the neighborhood telling him his boats were never coming back. 

Well we have coffee now, chumps.

For a long-time Bulls fan, the “what-ifs” all came up Millhouse yesterday. Post-Lakers-despair Pau looked like the good ole Pau we know, righteously collecting his points at the line. Taj can produce in the post. Derrick Rose didn’t re-injure anything. And even at a thirty-point lead, Thibs was there, shouting at the rafters like his audition for the Tempest was this weekend. It was the Bulls we love, with offense. Just like figuring out your favorite pajama pants have pockets now.

And as we’re ostensibly a Magic-related operation around here, what can we say? Tobias looked good in the way I’VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU, JERKS, but that didn’t mean a lot. Harris baiting Davis into an and-one was a thing of dad game beauty (13:00 for the LeaguePass folk). How did it somehow escape me how paper-good the Pellies became leading up to this season? How was I surprised when that somehow played out exactly how it was supposed to on the court? 

For those of you on Team Unibrow, bask. It’s your time. For us on Team Middle-Florida, there’s not a lot to be proud of. Mighty Morphin’ Elfrid Payton looks very much the rookie, despite some glimpses of promise. He can still move. He can’t actually shoot around Anthony Davis. Ben Gordon still sucks. Aaron Gordon looked great, excepting the most whifftastic corner three attempt in recent memory.

Overall remain in your seats, Magic people, glory is still beyond the horizon. Aside from a scrawled missive delivered by mythical sea eagle (“Orlando is fine. I am doing alright. Send money. -Elf”), we’ve received no word. The ships are still at sea. 

-David

In His Blade We Trust

“Nobody crossed him without a battle. He disliked almost everything, particularly his wife, his children, his neighbors, his church, his priest, his town, his state, his country, and the country from which he emigrated. Nor did he give a damn for the world either, or the sun or the stars, or the universe, or heaven or hell." -John Fante

Current music: Shellac
Current pants: None
Current Cat: Roast Beef
Current mood: Suspicious

I never had any attachment to Rajon Rondo, nor any feeling for him at all but a hazy respect for his game. He never terrified me the way Chris Paul or some of the other super point guards did. That wasn't his function or purpose. His purpose was to make it easier for others to terrify me. He worked behind the scenes with a big old spotlight fixed on him. He was a quiet showboat. I knew he wasn’t a scrub, knew he was in fact quite amazing at a great many things. But I watched so few Celtics games that most of this was absorbed knowledge, stuff I knew that I ought to know, like trigonometry or the moon landing. Boston was a headache. The Celtics were annoying, both for their affected intensity and their unchivalrous scream-y paths to victory.

The only time I actually felt joy watching Rondo play was during his duel with young acne scarred Derrick Rose during the 2009 playoffs. Holy shit, now that was something. Whoever thought a series featuring Ben Gordon and John Salmons would go down in the NBA book of legends and lore? No one, not even Jesus. But Rondo was great in that series, and it is not fun to imagine him becoming even more of an abstract presence. As I said, I was never too fond of the little gremlin, but I'm worried to live in a world where Rajon Rondo doesn’t matter. Others may inspire more ire, but Rondo inspires a passionate ambivalence. Like the people loitering in the church in the last episode of LOST, it's his turn to move on or die trying.

Rajon Rondo is many things, many strange and boring and beautiful and perplexing and creepy things. He’s a pass first point guard with gigantic hands and eyes that have seen the end of the world. He’s a guy who scowled so hard at Jordan Crawford’s attempts to run an NBA offense and fumed at every trade rumor that devalued him. He’s a man that at one point owned a pair of two hundred dollar roller skates (which, since he is a literal millionaire many times over, is probably not all that outlandish)! He’s been operating under the assumption that he was the heir apparent for years, and yet those greybeards limped around the court for so long, denying him the reins. Rondo is a throwback, an old soul, a dour and down on his luck gumshoe detective in a game full of speakeasy patrons. He has too much rebellion in his guts for management types with their crisp Windsor knots and diminishing return smiles. Danny Ainge was ready to trade him many times because he’s such a pill. Some still blame him for Ray Allen’s departure. In later years, with an untenable situation growing more and obviously over and done with, Rondo would be accused of the most unforgivable and disgusting crime of all, the crime of “dropping an F bomb” on Doc Rivers during a team meeting. He said "fuck" or "fucked" or "fucker" to another grown man.

Doc Rivers, a minor Saint in most hoops circles, now coaches a different All-Star Point Guard. Rondo languishes in nowhere land, a discarded puppy; bitter, bent, and hopefully not broken. Too many have been broken recently.

Players fade in and out our peripheries. I can go an entire year without thinking about Joe Johnson, and I am no longer sure that Allen Iverson ever really existed. Rondo is always there, but he’s not. Even before his ACL injury, he felt half a ghost to me, and not a benign one. One that has no desire to murder the family living in the haunted house, but surely one that wanted to shake the bookshelves and write menacing things on bathroom mirrors. He’s an instigator, and can you blame him? Look at the dudes he came up with; no shrinking violets suited up for the Ubuntu Celtics. Rajon Rondo is the last scowling man standing from that championship team. That was a year that hardly seemed fair. They stomped all over the country (and Toronto) like Shamrock shrouded manifest destiny. His importance only grew the following years as the Boston mercenaries continued to give the rest of the league hysterics as they did a serviceable impression of a darkest timeline version of the San Antonio Spurs. Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce in their near primes were a formidable tag team, and Ray Allen daggers make for good highlight reels, but Rajon Rondo was the little disciple that could and it was harder and harder to ignore him. He made things happen without smiling. His single-minded obstinacy is part of what made the Ubuntu Celtics so successful. The guy is out of his mind competitive. This is the man who once reacted to a Connect Four loss to a child with the following words: "But did you notice I played the guy five more times and won them all? I had to show him, ‘You beat me, I’ll beat the shit out of you.’” 

I hope that kid learned his lesson and never tried to win anything ever again and henceforth carried with him a healthy fear and mistrust of both his elders and celebrities.

His borderline cruelties to children aside, his rebirth would be a boon for people who enjoy this basketball thing. At twenty-eight years old he should have a few more  years left to segue his career from Hong Kong gangster cinema to something more comfortable and comforting. There’s time yet to find a situation that brings more harmony and stability than what the behind the scenes Celtics chatter has crudely brushed for us. Whether it is just the man’s nature, or the strained relationship with his perhaps over-lauded coach, or being asked to do too much whilst too young with too little thanks, or the years alongside brash and deranged competitors, Rondo’s pass-first smile-later bleakness on the court sometimes felt like it bordered on unsustainable. It is appealing to imagine then, as the opening of a new act, to see him lead a gang of wet behind the ears next-generation youngsters (whether in Sacramento, Detroit, New Orleans, or on the Moon) into the win column instead of threatening to kick the shit out of them because they beat him at Connect Four.

STEVE

If there’s one thing Mike “Wooly Willy” Woodson was adept at, it was getting two good minutes from his bench, be it from veterans or role players. You rotate the man in, get him a couple of shots, and then send him back to the bench. This meant more than just economical use of his smaller figures, and it meant more than just making your team difficult to figure out. Switching up the pieces meant the development and recognition of certain crowd favorites. I, for one, can’t watch the “You Wanna Play Rasheed?” clip without tearing up a little bit. 

Moments like these made me love not so much the Knicks as that team at that specific moment, those guys, seemingly assembled from nothing, and most importantly, Steve Novak. I remember my college roommate hurling a chair across the room, Bobby Knight-style, as we both screamed, “STEEEEVE.” Novak, you see, is not the man who beats his man and creates offense out of nothing. He is the man who waits for you to under-guard him, at which point he delivers exactly the three you’d hoped for. We admire the player less than the perfection of the shot. There are the various internet profiles of his life in Wisconsin, and none of them ring terribly interesting. We’re drawn to Steve not because of his humanity. He does not have off-the-court drama. He does not have interesting tattoos. We watch because when he steps on the court, he is that one shot personified. The man disappears and only the shot remains. 

So we find him moving to the Utah Jazz, at a surprising 3.7 million annually, to deliver what will doubtless be a similar product. Because Steve Novak Does Not Change. Steve Novak chuckles at Lake Wobegon as he drives himself to games. Steve Novak eats exclusively wheat toast. Steve Novak thinks the US Postal Service is a miraculous thing. "How did this postcard from Shanghai make it to my mailbox?” he asks himself. A coin, hollow in the middle, with two dried grains of jasmine rice placed inside--a male and female figure painted on each, respectively--is taped to the card. Steve knows that the weight of the coin jacked up the price of postage. 

On the card is written a simple message: “Whatever happens, there will always be a home for you here. Love, Yao.” Steve places the card on his mantle, because Steve appreciates the kind gesture and because the message strikes Steve as a warning. 

Steve returns to his backyard half-court setup, shoots a three from the corner, and smiles to himself as he jogs for the rebound. “Not yet."

Sleep Forever or Die Trying

Come all ye faithful and triumphant, and embrace the bitter callous darkness of the Sports Fan's heart. It's the Season of Schadenfreude, a term so overused by non German speakers that perhaps we should use a likeminded sentiment instead, this one from Sweden: skadeglädje. The literal definition (injury joy) is probably a bit too on the nose, but evokes a queasy aspect irrevocably tied to professional sports, namely the knee-jerk urge to find the silver lining of men too physically damaged to play basketball. It's hopefully true that only the worst and weirdest scumbags are actually out in the streets shooting off bottle rockets to celebrate the respective misfortunes of Kevin Durant or Paul George or Bradley Beal. But seeing as how this is a both a business and a pastime certain reactions are impossible to suppress. You go to that dishonorable place and ask questions that no one can hear because you still want to believe despite everything that you are a good person. What does this injury mean for my team? What is the tangible benefit of this young man's broken leg for me? How will it affect playoff seeding in this one particular year? It's gross, but unavoidable. Shameful, but also expected.

Bradley Beal is injured. He's expected to be out of commission until late November. He's a player I enjoy quite a lot. He's explosive and cerebral. Kind of an Eric Gordon 2.0. Old soul eyes and a boyish grin that'll kill you. Basically, he's a kid. A kid who is great at scoring and just tall enough to capitalize on his skills in the best league in the world.  And yet, within a few minutes of hearing about his injury, I joked with a friend, "Well, the Wizards definitely don't have the best backcourt in the league now." That's a good joke, asshole. Good delivery. It really kills at wine and cheese parties. Anyway, it feels bad to dehumanize kids, though I have made worse jokes (content wise, as far as laughs achieved that is probably literally the worst joke I've made). Kevin Durant's fall is even worse news for the league, and tremendously depressing for fans of the Thunder or for fans of the universally accepted Runner Up Best Player In the World. It's no good when a titan is struck down (though is it actually worse than when JJ Hickson is struck down?), no good for us who live for extremely basic joys like made baskets, and certainly no good for the people actually making U-Boats full of money off this racket.

And of course the season seems incomplete when you lose a Durant or a Derrick Rose. When you thrash the Thunder or the Bulls you get an asterisks next to your to victory, and of course when you get shellacked it's all Shame City USA, Population: You. And speaking from a more primitive perspective, not only is Kevin Durant a great player, he's a fun player and I want to watch his long spider limbs do amazing spider things with the orange ball. And also, a month long interruption of all these pathos! Durant is a knight errant embroiled in a quest to throw the Mantle of the Silver Medal into the sun. And as far as household names go, he's tops when you factor in love (not cult like fanatical/creepy devotion!). Kobe Bryant is settling into a life as an fade-away jumpshot anachronism, LeBron James still inspires rage amongst a certain type of person, and Chris Paul is a person who punches dude's dicks. Durant is by all accounts the leagues universally beloved megastar. The world wants to see him succeed. The world wanted to believe in the dream of the Oklahoma City Thunder very much.  And yet there were thousands and thousands of fans, let's say fans centered in the Bay Area, Houston, Dallas, Memphis, Phoenix, Los Angeles, San Antonio, Portland, and New Orleans that found their silver lining very quickly indeed when Durant went down. All for the possibility of moving up every so slightly in the pecking order of the Western Conference. Injuries are a fucking bummer. But don't forget, there is a cadre of sports wits rubbing their hands in anticipation of finally revealing to a dubious world that Russell Westbrook is no good at basketball after all! Oh the longform, oh the thinkpieces, or the blogspot bloviating! We'll get so much of that, whichever path Westbrook walks during those first few desperate games. Everyone is on a mission, but missions are stupid.

But there are so many more instances of shameful joy or joy of misfortune or enjoying calamity upon an enemy that take us in slightly different directions of gerrymandering our moral compasses! It's an exhausting world of the low impulses! Sometimes it is unworthy, sometimes just plain reactionary, but sometimes motherfuckers are motherfuckers and to hell with motherfuckers so let justice prevail though the heavens may fall. We've all got our own version of Nixon's Enemy List. Sometimes it is histrionic goofballs we disdain, though they're harmless more often than not and the knowledge that they'll soon be suiting up for the Sichuan Sharks ameliorates things a bit. Sometimes it's the poor hapless old-timer, a Mustache Pete like  Byron Scott and his almost troll-worthy efforts to push some sort of antiquated style of basketball that doesn't really make sense in this century. Plus it's just aesthetically displeasing and we hate it! We want him to fail, we want him to go down hard and clutch the earth beneath him and beg for mercy and then we want him to promise the next team he coaches will field a starting five of Stephen Curry, Anthony Morrow, Jason Kapono, Steve Novak, and Channing Frye. Then there are the half-cheaters who try to play the odds but almost always end up fucking up the act of purposefully fucking up. The 76ers tanked with the sort of aplomb usually reserved for masturbation after a long break and they ought not to be rewarded, and hey, Philadelphia fans booed Santa Claus and never appreciated Andre Iguodala so let them wander in the desert for another forty seasons. Jason Kidd attempted a curious power play against a Russian oligarch and now he coaches an absurd franchise called the Milwaukee Bucks. I wish the Bucks well, they seem like nice dudes mostly, but Jason Kidd's face has always annoyed me, he looks like a self-satisfied eagle just looking for the right moment to sucker punch someone. I hope you are fired, Jason.

Speaking of the Bucks, Larry Sanders, a darling of the NBA nerd caste, has been cited for animal cruelty. Say what you want about humans, we are awful and disgusting and cheat and lie and become politicians and bureaucrats, but animal cruelty is something that sticks in my craw at a primitive level (Grantland footnote: I am not a vegetarian sooo). It would not kill me if Larry Sanders never returns to form, it would not kill me if someday a dog bites his hand. Carmelo Anthony's continued mediocre achievements in the post-season are also just fine. Blue blood franchises like the Lakers, Celtics, and Knicks treading water or just drowning seems appropriate, fair, proper, and desirable. Lance Stephenson ruined the Pacers chance at a title with his silliness well fine, that just happens to be his punishment from the cosmos for throwing a woman down a flight of stairs. But apart from these little one-sided feuds that may or not have something to do with honor or revenge or some misplaced sense of justice, there are fans (or those that pretend to be fans) that just want to watch the world not burn per se, but at they at least want to see it buckle, bend, and threaten to break. People with myriad well nurtured grievances that feel nice and warm when LeBron fails to hit game-winners, or feel vindicated by Steph Curry missing open threes and turning the ball over, or delight at Dwight Howard bricking free-throws, or feel a little funny down there when James Harden falls on his ass whilst attempting to defend a towel boy slashing to the rim.

So, massive amounts of schadenfreude might just be unavoidable. That is to say, it's unavoidable for me. I allow for the possibility of people much less petty than I am, who take no sides and can look at OJ Mayo without becoming agitated. I also allow for the possibility of people much more petty, but also racist, violent, and cruel. Because the league is entertainment, but also non-fiction, as far as that goes, it's all too simple (and also fun) to fill in the blanks and start creating heroes, villains, scoundrels, missions, arcs, goals, victories (moral/actual and strategic/tactical), defeats (short term/long term), sub-plots, cliffhangers, and in general close relationships with the most familiar characters. But much of our construction is kinda bullshit or at best just a partial truth. As long as we can admit that, well then we can hate hard and love hard and hopefully pray no bone is ever shattered on the hardwood again, thereby absolving of us from having to momentarily rejoice that we might make the playoffs this year after all! A split second of shameful joy is still shameful, son, but just like mama always said, shame is like a box of chocolates; it's full of shame of different shapes and sizes and textures and perhaps ingredients and some taste good and some don't and as long as you don't eat too many pieces of chocolate you are not a piece of shit, just a person who eats chocolate from time to time.

Let Us Now Praise Obscure Men

In early 2013, the Milwaukee Bucks traded Tobias Harris and sundry minor players to the Magic in exchange for J.J. Redick. As the blog’s resident Milwaukee fan, I’m driven to consider the year Milwaukee had in the wake of this: Redick moved, Caron Butler happened. Another of the Bucks’ “win now” moves resulted in a salad of mediocrity worse than the sum of its ingredients, a naive re-sorting of luxury cabins in the Hindenburg.

But we’re here to talk about the Magic, aren’t we? 2013 also marked the shifting of McRoberts to the Bobcats for coin. 2013 marked the changing of Tobias Harris’ number from Bucks 15 back to Volunteers 12—surely the number holds no significance for Magic fans. But there’s an engine behind the Bucks, an eptness in social media marketing as profound as the previous management’s ineptness at making a good basketball team. The Bucks present themselves perfectly to basketball Twitter as the team for the viewer that likes players individually, that likes promise and developing talent over realized greatness and W’s. It’s no surprise, then, that Tobias Harris somehow drifted below the radar even as he grew into a more competent player on the Magic. The Magic fail to grasp how they can be sold. The Magic don’t see the hordes of LeaguePass kids begging for a reason to like the team.

Look at that. This is the Magic reaching out to you. Does it register? Do you feel yourself represented by the man on the right? (Or the man on the left, for that matter.)

This is the same team that played U2’s “Vertigo” to get the fans hyped up for an important pre-halftime play out of a time out. It’s as if they’re trying not to get your attention.

And in all of this we miss Willie Green, without the LeBron-headband, boldly asking you to confront the reality that is his hairline. We miss the (romantic?) connection building between blog-favorite Elfrid Payton and Tobias Harris. We miss Tobias developing into a man that can do actual damage. 

Perhaps it’s not because of the Twitter Bucks Bias, or Twitter Magic Ignorance, perhaps it’s because he’s missing certain features. Braggadocio is certainly first among what Harris lacks. He brings an intensity to every play that utterly vanishes as he descends from the basket, as he walks up to the interviewer and tells her he thanks God that he’s even here. This after dropping twenty-plus points and assorted dimes in a game-winning effort. 

Maybe it’s because he makes one too many threes. He makes the kind of threes that reassure him it’s okay to take them from time to time, when his overall performance beyond the arc, stats-wise, is more reminiscent of Josh Smith than Kevin Durant. This is one of a few flaws. 

But watch him ram the ball home off a pass in the paint. Watch him exhibit self-control and humility and a commitment to the team, and not to himself. Really sit down, watch a Magic game, and tell me why you care about Khris Middleton more than you do Tobias Harris. 

Maybe he’s not out on the streets of Milwaukee getting photographed with BANGO THE DEER. Maybe that’s not where he’s supposed to be.

-David

NBA Science: Which Team Should I Cheer For in the "World Series" anyway?

Every year it is the same old tired shitty idiotic slowish vaguely My Bloody Valentine sounding song: The MLB playoffs are getting in the way of the sporting event that really matters, namely the NBA preseason. Yes, it's true, the preseason is half pointless and definitely too long, but even so, at least it is NBA basketball, a superlative iteration of a sport which moves at a nice pace and makes sense, a sport that does not typically reward categorically inferior teams because of luck or wind and rain or "errors" or destiny or the zeitgeist of our times. Still, just like guys who ride horses to work or use fax machines more than their hotmail accounts, baseball is a real thing, a thing that I, as a cultural relativist and secular humanist, must respect and honor.

Okay, the truth is that baseball is a very nice thing, though perhaps confusing to an NBA fan. The NBA fan is used to an organizing principle not predicated on the slow death, unless they live and die by the Memphis Grizzlies or the Edicts of Byron Scott. Baseball is all rugged individualism and the wrath of the invisible hand of the free market. But baseball also stormed the beaches of Normandy to fight fascism. Baseball is as American as that flag being raised in Iwo Jima or two men starting a small business on the moon.

Basketball is more of a street war, an alleyway skirmish, kind of a Stalingrad thing, bolt action rifle guys trying to make a dent in tanks come to put a hurt on your family. They are not compatible wars. Imagine Lawrence Frank or P.J. Carlesimo wearing jerseys on the sidelines. Imagine only using the most important player on your team once every three or four games, and imagine he's not even in the game during crunch time. Imagine if making shots was next to impossible. Imagine every team had a court of different dimensions.  Imagine this fucked up world, won't you?

If you are done imagining, I've made a very helpful list that you, as fans or players of these basketball teams, can use to decide which of these two stick-ball squads you ought to support in this most dire of times. I think you'll find it most helpful.

Golden State Warriors- You should cheer for the Giants. This is some real no doy shit here, son.

Utah Jazz- You should cheer for the Royals. This is all about the culture war, and a blood red state like Utah can't afford to support anything even tangentially connected to Nancy Pelosi.

Milwaukee Bucks- You should cheer for the Royals. Why? I'll break it down into four words: Giannis Antetokounmpo. Mike Moustakas. The urge as a Bucks fan to cheer on the success of yet another "Greek Freak" will be difficult to suppress.

Detroit Pistons- You should cheer for the Giants, despite the fact that the Giants swept the Tigers in 2012. The reason for this is the people of Detroit do not like the people of Kansas City. I can't explain it, but it's a real thing and it will bleed into this series. 

Atlanta Hawks- You should cheer for the Royals. The Giants are annoying.

Miami Heat- You should cheer for the Giants. The Royals are annoying.

The Oklahoma City Thunder- You should cheer for the Royals because post-season dominance really turns you on, you know, it's gross but it's a thing and maybe we should be less judgmental about our various idiosyncrasies. Plus, you also get mad boners for cities that are so desperate to prove they are cities that their names end with the word "City" (examples: Kansas City, Oklahoma City, Ho Chi Minh City, even the suburb of Sadr City in Baghdad).

The Denver Nuggets- You should cheer for the Royals. The Giants come from an area that was once awash in gold nuggets, and Denver does not take that lightly.

New York Knicks- You should support the Giants, though not go so far as to do anything as base or crass as cheer. New Yorkers will never support a team from a "fly-over" state, and may as well not even acknowledge the existence of Missouri. On top of this, the Knicks and the Yankees both are like that kid in Blank Check visiting a Thai whorehouse. Old money wins championships, and to hell with teams with smallish payrolls accomplishing things. Plus Carmelo sometimes wears an Orioles hat. The Royals took the Orioles behind the woodshed and made them commit seppuku in front of their best friends.

Toronto Raptors- You should cheer for the Giants. I mean, if it was the Alberta Raptors or the Winnipeg Raptors things might be different, but it's not. It's not about what you want but what you get.

San Antonio Spurs- The Spurs will be watching fútbol or perhaps developing new theories of advanced mathematics and putting those theorems and equations of advanced mathematics into their peace pipes and smoking them. Spurs fans can cheer for whomever they want. They've earned that much.

Portland Trailblazers- You should cheer for the Giants, because your two cities are spiritually entwined in more ways that either of you could ever admit. In fact, the things you hate about one another are actually the things you hate about yourselves. No Blazers fan could in good conscience root against a kindred spirit or a long long evil twin like San Francisco. Flannel don't lie.

The Los Angeles Clippers/Lakers- You should cheer for the Royals. The Dodgers have sort of a Royals color scheme and the Giants are just a bunch of jerks to the poor, poor little baby Dodgers. In fact, you are just angry that any one from Northern California has the temerity to call you out on using the expression "hella" or to tell you that your burritos are second class burritos at best. 

Brooklyn Nets- Doesn't matter what the fans or players of this team think.

Minnesota Timberwolves- You should cheer for the Giants. The Twins have bad history with the Royals, the Twins are your team, therefore, you will support the team that is not the Royals and that team is the Giants.

Chicago Bulls- You should cheer for the Royals. Michael Jordan is considered the King of the NBA. You are devoted monarchists. You will support the embattled nobility over the slobbering petite bourgeoisie any day of the fucking week pal, now get me some damn hot dogs and put crazy green relish on it and some fucking tomato slices in there, what's taking so long buddy, youze got hot dogs for eyes or something??

Sacramento Kings- You should cheer for the Giants. Despite the very royal sobriquet, Sacramento is Giants country. I feel bad for having to tell you this, I mean do you even own a map and no, the one that still has the USSR on it does not count.

Memphis Grizzlies- You should cheer for the Royals. Nobody can really figure out why. You know, it's really quite a mystery.

Indiana Pacers- You should cheer for the Royals. Though both teams are sort of perennial under-achievers (the Giants are under-achievers that have won two World Series' in the past few years), the Pacers will side with the team they can imagine understanding acid rain and taking your lunch box to work. The Giants are scrappy, but they have the scrappiness of former frat-boys slowly coming out of the darkness. They probably haven't ever walked a mile or even mourned a murdered friend.

New Orleans Pelicans- You should cheer for the Giants, but only because Anthony Davis both consulted the bones and took the auspices. Two crows flying overhead heralded a vote of confidence for the team by the Bay. And then this happened:

"Come then," Tyreke Evans said angrily, 'Deduce when they make up in bed, if your augury can, whether what I have in my mind right now is possible.' And when Anthony Davis, expert in augury that he was, immediately said that it would happen, Tyreke Evans replied: 'Well, I thought that you would cut a whetstone with a sharp knife. Here, take this and do what your birds have predicted would be possible.' And Anthony Davis, hardly delaying at all, took the whetstone and cut it. 'Boom shaka laka.'

Washington Wizards- You should cheer for the Royals because the Giants stole your honor. Wolf Blitzer, both a Wizards and Nationals fan, wept. Rivulets of tears turned his erstwhile proud beard into a salty graveyard of dreams never to be realized. Plus, John Wall and Bradley Beal aren't the best backcourt in the league.

Cleveland Cavaliers- You should cheer for whichever team will take Dion Waiters off your hands. Probably the Royals. Okay, I got this one. You will cheer for the Royals.

Seattle Supersonics- #dang

Charlotte Hornets- You should cheer for whomever Lance Stephenson tells you to cheer for because god damn it, that guy is a helluva persuasive speaker. He's like Pericles meets Cicero meets all the characters from Deadwood. Some say he is such a persuasive speaker because he has an uzi pointed at your head, but others say it is because he has a mastery of egos, pathos, and logos. Sometimes life is a lil' of column A, a lil' of column B. That's fine. 

Phoenix Suns- You should cheer for the Giants, despite your better judgement and past ambivalence, because when I googled "goran dragic eric bledsoe kansas city" nothing came up. 

Orlando Magic- You should cheer for the Royals. Yeah, I don't know why.

Philadelphia 76ers- You should cheer for the Royals and the Giants. The rebuilding process is a convoluted and subtle process indeed.

Houston Rockets- You should cheer for the Giants, because the Royals beat the A's, and the A's are the moneyball team, and Houston loves moneyball. Darryl Morey is a rich Republican asshole, but man, is he a wiz-kid that loves "moneyball" or what!

Dallas Mavericks- You should cheer for the Royals because the Royals understand what makes this country great and because being from Dallas you could never cheer for a team called the "Giants" due to circumstances beyond your earthly control.

Boston Celtics- You should cheer for the Giants for a variety of reasons, but chiefly because Giants are big and bigger is better and Royals tried to make you pay for stamps and tea and shit and Boston never forgives, never forgets, never relents, never stops going in, never trespasses, never fights that war that rages within its own heart, never gives up, never gives in, never gives out change, never eats more than its fair share, never shares, never shaves, never runs, never walks, never hides, never backs down, and also they already won a World Series, so they are good. On the other hand, a vocal minority of Boston Celtics/Boston Celtic fans will cheer for the Royals, because the Orioles kept the Red Sox out of the playoffs a few years ago and the Royals put a beating on the Orioles championship dreams, so you know, it's all just a dumbed down transitive property joke #blessed #proud #bostonstrong #dropkickmurphys #goodwillhunting  

Game of Thrones.

Dennis Rodman and Kim Jong-Un: A Midsummer's Night Dream

Chicago- Dennis Rodman has surprised certain people that are not used to being surprised and announced his intentions to invade North Korea and restore autocratic tyrant Kim Jong-Un to power. Many in the intelligence community have speculated that the silly dictator's mysterious absence and possible early run-in with gout portend something altogether more ominous, that is to say a possible coup of a beloved tyrant who grew up worshipping Rodman and the Chicago Bulls.

Rodman showed up to a hastily called press conference wearing a Double Team 

Good movie

 t-shirt and acid wash jeans and kind of plain looking Air Jordans probably from the mid-90s by the looks of them. He was all smiles.

"I know you guys think Kim Jong-Un is an awful mean dictator that perhaps fed his uncle to dogs and you think I'm a real nutter butter for even having that guy in my life," Rodamn said, smiling, "But don't you think I know that? I wasn't born yesterday. I was born May 13th, 1961 to Philander and Shirley Rodman. I am 53 years old. The point is, yes, I get it. He is a dictator holding court over the terrified masses of a country under siege by itself for over fifty years. Yes, but more importantly, he's my friend."

"He's not really your friend you know," a reporter wearing a wrinkled cardigan said. His voice was tinny and weak. "He's using you to legitimize himself."

"You don't know a damn thing about it, bub," Dennis Rodman said, "Blood is thicker than water and soju is thicker than both. I've looked into his soul. I know his heart."

"Okay," the reporter said. He sounded satisfied. He sat down and spoke nevermore.

"As I was saying," Rodman continued, "I have assembled my team. Perhaps you read in the weeklies that my Basketball Diplomacy Outreach Team abandoned me. Perhaps you heard Sleepy Floyd claim that I tricked him into entering North Korea. Nothing could be further from the truth. Nothing. Nothing could be further from the truth, I said. As far as I am concerned, the truth is here, and what Sleepy Floyd said is in a wormhole floating outside of Deep Space 9. Sleepy Floyd is a goddamn motherfucking liar. And he's not part of my team. Allow me to unveil my team."

At this point the room grew silent as the lights dimmed slowly and Dennis Rodman fiddled with a power-point presentation. "Ah, there we are!" he said when it finally started working. Off to the side, Rodman's assistant, Sleepy Floyd, pressed "play" on a boombox and that song that is in Kill Bill Vol. 1 began to play ever so quietly.

Rodman began thusly: "Allow me to introduce my team.

Tyreke Evans- Demolitions Expert

Yes, I know what you are all thinking. Tyreke Evans won Rookie of the Year and then might as well have vanished into the ether for the casual fan. Injuries, regression (gaudy stat lines that put him in the company of Michael Jordan and Oscar Roberston were not sustainable and plus his game is sort of annoying and ball hoggy, I Dennis Rodman never hogged a ball or anything else for that matter), and playing for a small market team that also happened to be both a) terrible and b) embroiled in a re-location saga all contributed to a diminished profile. The quasi-blockbuster trade that sent him to the Pelicans (to join other scoring guards Eric Gordon and Jrue Holiday) all but guaranteed him a high scoring bench role and relief from the pressure he felt in Sacramento to be the man. Of course, that didn't really work out. Plus, I know he is good with bombs. I am excited to meet Tyreke.

Danny Granger- Luck Expert

Did you guys notice last year that the Pacers became the worst team in the world after they got rid of Danny Granger? Of course you did. My cat noticed and she only has three legs!  Injury woes and the prevailing attitude that somewhat scorns volume scorers relegated Granger to a horrible life of being maybe good enough to be Paul George’s sidekick. Well, it's all spilled milk under the bridge. Every team needs a guy to keep the spirits high. If you have ever watched Akira Kurosawa's 7 Samurai you know the guy who chops wood fulfills that role and it is my hope that Danny brings that kind of wood chopping charm to our little gang of miscreants. Sorry Larry Bird or whoever is in charge in that weird town, but Danny Granger is going to have his revenge.

Manu Ginobli- Hand to Hand Combat

Manu will take his Euro-step and flopping abilities to a new level in Pyongyang. He is a transformational wily eyed Argentine trickster that performs heroic feats on a nightly basis. I can only assume Kim Jong-Un will be in a secret basement somewhere surrounded by armed guards. We'll need someone who is not afraid to die to win this battle. With an all around game and the tenacity of a hornet, Manu was often the second best player on the team that became the gold standard for all other teams, and yet, I do believe he'll never be a sixth-man on our secret mission, but a starter. Yes his hobbling limbs and erratic miscues nearly doomed the Spurs many times over the years but give the guy a break, he is literally insane, a crazy person, loco, divoneh, whatever you want to call it. He's stared into the abyss and spit in its eye. I should know, he told me! Never forget, reporters of all creeds and colors and political opinions, Manu Ginobli can still destroy you. Yes, I am aware of the bald spot. Yes...I am aware. of. the. bald. spot.

Rudy Gay- Gunner

Okay, maybe you see what I'm going for here now. I don't want KEVIN DURANT or LEBRON JAMES or any of those fools out on a mission this important. Those egos! Other than Monta Ellis, Rudy Gay has to be the most divisive player in the NBA for you stat freaks, and isn't that saying something indeed! In the new world order, efficiency trumps scoring, and Rudy exemplifies the high-flying athletic scorers that do little else. He's also a gentleman, I'll have you know. I never knew if Maryland was really considered the south but he has that hospitality down, oh, yes, he played in Memphis for awhile, did he not? I see now, of course. I was stupid and dumb to forget. His defense, passing, and assists are all average or below (his rebounding is okay for his position) but he does shoot a lot. Personally, as a fan of things you people do not like, I enjoy a fun mix of athleticism and Greek tragedy and Rudy is at the epicenter of all the shenanigans. I will give him a machine gun.

DeMarcus Cousins- Bar Room Brawler

Oh, this guy is my secret weapon! This guy will either become the best player in the league or fade away like a beautiful dream. He’s got all the talent in the world (it also doesn’t hurt that he is huge, way bigger than I am), but without refinement. The maturity knocks are overstated, people just like to kick a huge man when he is down. Have you guys watched any Kings games? You have? Hold on, you have? I haven't. But anyone who has watched enough Kings games knows the familiar sight of Cousins jawing with referees or talking completely unnecessary trash to opposing players. With no discernible post game, a shot selection that relies to much on an outside jumper that isn’t quite there yet, Cousins is the type of dude who makes you pull your hair out in frustration because he could be elevate Sacramento into a contender when he puts it all together. I was in a movie with Jean-Claude Van Damme, and someday so too will DeMarcus Cousins be.

Al Jefferson- Wise Elder

Al Jefferson is the forgotten man but he’s turned some heads in Charlotte and he will turn heads in the DPRK. For one thing he possesses a skill set that has become sadly antiquated for today’s big men. Low post mastery and an elegant feathery touch around the basket. For another he is a master linguist, and should get us past customs with little to no problem. He's also an adept hand at bribing corrupt officials, both on the court and in the seedier towns along the DMZ. The Bobcats, I mean, the Hornets, excuse me, are a team mired in the squalor of unceasing failure that worship at the altar or sort of success. I see our trip to North Korea along the same lines. Jefferson won’t play lockdown defense or amaze with his last second buzzer beaters, but he'll keep us alive, damn you. 

Luol Deng- Grizzled Old Soldier

I have nothing to say about Deng except that if you do not want him in the foxhole next to you then you must be a damnfool sir, a damnfool.

nice

David Lee- Sacrifice

Here’s a nasty little secret that the Kirk Goldberry folks don't want to hear: David Lee is a phenomenal basketball player. He hustles relentlessly, grabs rebounds like a vulture hovering around a piñata, can pass the ball beautifully for a big man, and has a super reliable jump-shot out to about sixteen or seventeen feet. And yet…the only reason I am bringing him on this mission is to die. At some point a sacrifice will be demanded, and that sacrifice will be David Lee. You think I'm going to let Tyreke Evans die? HAHAHAHAHAHA! (pause for laughter). Man, you guys. Anyway. Lee’s defensive woes are over-stated to the extreme but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. He moves his feet slow. Yeah, that slow footed man will probably step on a land mine. I'm not trying to be a jerk. I'm just being honest. 

Mike Conley- Getaway Driver

I know what you are saying, in fact, I hear you saying it. I hear the guy in the tinny voice saying it, at least! Yeah, Mike Conley. He’s not a wrecking ball or a three point samurai. He’s just a damn good point guard, one that will more often than not make the right play and one that knows who butters his bread. That is to say, Conley is adept at feeding his  big men in the spots they like to be fed (every reporter starts imagining Marc Gasol and Zach Randolph eating, though not everyone imagines them eating the same thing of course). That's why Mike Conley is going to be our getaway driver. He's a utility dude. He does what is needed. He'll get us out of North Korea by chopper, by motorboat, by tank if needs be. Conley will never be a Top Ten point guard, but he’s destined to hover around the eleventh or twelfth spot. More than any other Grizzly, Conley does what the team needs to win when they need it. Not as sulky as Randolph, nor as business like as Gasol, Conley has against all odds, become the leader of this very, very good ball club. And now he's part of my ball club. Despite not being a superstar he has the instincts of one and in the meantime does a bit of everything: scrappy diminutive defense, smart passes, bunches scoring when necessary…Mike Conley Jr. is going to have a more or less the same year over and over again, but it’ll be a good year, assuming he does not get killed when David Lee does.

Any questions?"

A woman in a wrinkled cardigan raised her hand. 

"Yes? What is your question?" Dennis Rodman asked, lowering his sunglasses lasciviously. 

"We just got word that Kim Jong-Un has reappeared."

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..." Dennis Rodman said, "There are Pepsi sodas in the back if any of you are thirsty. Thank you for coming."

Orlando Magic Preview: AKIRA

Evan Fournier was hunched over a Lord of the Rings themed pinball machine in his favorite bar, when the door burst open. Lord of the Rings was his favorite movie, and the pinball machine did Peter Jackson's Middle Earth justice. When he was lonely he would sometimes imagine himself as a member of the Fellowship of the Ring. The only member of the Fellowship of the Ring he did not like was Gimli. In France no one cared for Gimli. But anyway, the door had burst open.

A gust of cold swept the room momentarily, and Evan Fournier adjusted his scarf tighter, all the while pounding away at the two buttons on the pinball machine. God, Pinball was awesome. In fact, it was so engrossing he barely noticed the figure who had entered the bar quietly approach him then lean on the pinball machine and fix him with a hard cool stare.

It was his teammate Victor Oladipo. Victor was an interesting fellow. He was a young guy but had that self assured poise of a man who knew he would be a future star. Once, in his cups, Victor Oladipo had confessed that someday he would be as good a basketball player as Monta Ellis. That would make his father proud he said. Evan Fournier had at that point taken the flagon of wine from Victor Oladipo, but confided that he understood the urge to impress a father. His own father had been a judo champion. Victor Oladipo had smiled and confided that his father had wanted to send him to China to learn "karate", that he had not approved of the basket ball. He thought wistfully of his shot chart.

He then broke into song, a deep resonant wail. Victor Oladipo was a great singer. But now, in the present, at the bar, he wasn't singing. He bent close and spoke in a barely audible whisper.

"We've got the Clowns cornered at the expressway," Victor Oladipo said softly, and almost in retaliation Evan Fournier pounded the pinball machine even harder. It was a fools errand though, as he pounded without any apparent strategy, and the balls fell beyond his reach. He was out of quarters. Wasn't that always the way it went. He then imagined his girlfriend and the way she would make him his favorite dish, Thieboudinenne, a mix of fish and rice! His girlfriend was always making him eat that stuff. "Here, eat this dish, it is a mix of fish and rice!" and Evan Fournier would say, "Call me 'More Champagne', it is my nom de guerre, but okay, this fish and rice is excellent!"

  

But in the present and far from those fish and rice reveries, Evan Fournier thought about Victor Oladipo words. "Lets go," Evan Fournier said, tightening his scarf once again and casually strolling out of the bar, as if he was never a little boy who had dreamed of being a paleontologist. Their coach (who sometimes was a bartender), an imposing looking fellow who went by the name of Jacque Vaughn, was glaring at them as they left.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer, pops," Victor Oladipo said caustically, as they sauntered out of the bar like they owned the whole world.

"Get out of here, you punks! I don't need your business! And don't call me pops, I'm not that much older than you!"

Evan Fournier and Victor Oladipo laughed as they slammed the door behind them. Jacque Vaughn was left thinking about how much older this job had made him, running a bar in Neo-Orlando, after the apocalypse. Things had been different since the bomb. Life wasn't guaranteed anymore. It was a touch and go existence, man. And in this world only the strong survived, or the very well endowed.

One of the patrons suddenly spoke up, decrying the song playing on the jukebox.

"What is this shit?" He shouted in a high pitched whine, more suited to a British TV comedy than post apocalyptic Orlando, which this was. His name was Marv Albert, and he was wearing an eye patch.

"Oh, this is Mumford and Sons," Jacque Vaughn explained, "They were a band before...before the you know what."

"They suck," Marv Albert said in a sexy growl.

"You don't know what your talking about," a tall woman named Doris Burke said earnestly. "Mumford and Sons is the best band ever to come out of the old days. Listen. They sound like a choir of strange of angels."

"Will you marry me?" Marv Albert asked, earnestly.

Doris Burke nodded, then said "Yes," superfluously.

Jacque Vaughn smiled.

Anyway. Back to the matter at hand, Evan Fournier and Victor Oladipo walked toward the parking lot. It was a foggy night and about to get foggier. They didn't speak to one another, there was no time, there was walking to do!

A few feet away, in the big but unimpressive parking lot, Mo Harkless was admiring Evan Fournier's unicycle. "Wow, that's an awesome looking unicycle. Way better than mine." Tentatively he climbed atop it, admiring the firm cushion that presently enveloped his posterior. He felt like a king. He had just read some analysis that had soured him on this mortal coil. He tried to forget it.

What is there to say about Maurice Harkless? He matters. A lot of guys on this team don’t fucking matter. Luke Ridnour doesn’t matter. Willie Green doesn’t matter even more than Luke Ridnour doesn’t matter! But Mo? Mo matters. And yet, he bores me. It bores me to think about Mo Harkless. His numbers suffered slightly from his rookie year, but his defense improved. He works hard, but he’s not a focal point in this bizarre storm, so he’ll likely continue to take a backseat to Oladipo and Gordon and Harris and Vucevic.  He’s a building block. Mostly. He’s a future starter. Probably. I mean, he started roughly half the games last year, came off the bench the other half. Did this confuse him? Send him mixed signals? I don’t know, probably. Can he continue to improve his three-point shot or was last season a cruel outlier?  He’s so young, and yet, the young should be angry and possessed by the fierce urgency of now! That’s why long stretches of invisibility on offense are so disconcerting, though this of course is not entirely his fault. It would be nice for the offense to run some plays designed to get Mo some easy baskets, something to tap into the malevolent scaled beast within. My advice for Mo Harkless, a man that made more money last year than I will in probably a hundred years is this: read the complete works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and practice dribbling.

Woof! Who would write such words! And then he saw the shadows approaching him. His heart dropped. 

"Is that you again, Mo Harkless?" Evan Fournier shouted, disdainfully.

"That pea-brain?" Victor Oladipo asked condescendingly.

"Get off my unicycle," Evan Fournier said, "It's too much for a kid like you."

Mo Harkless climbed down, his pride battered and bruised and shot up and immolated. "I could ride it."

"That unicylce would chew you up and spit out the seeds sport," Victor Oladipo told him with a kind of gentle but sinister smile.

"Which expressway are the clowns cornered?" Evan Fournier asked Victor Oladipo.

"Clown Expressway."

"Merde, it's gonna take all night to get there!"

A lot of frantic pedaling later, they finally came upon their prey. The clowns. A bunch of guys who wore clown outfits. But these were mournful clowns. As the unicycle gang approached, they sensed something was not quite right.

The lead clown was an imposing looking figure, who was wearing a shirt that simply said "Unity" on it. He waved to the unicycle gang as the surrounded the clown procession, crowbars ready to do some serious clown damage.

"What is this all about?" Evan Fournier demanded.

"Clown funeral," the lead clown, Joey Crawford intoned respectfully. "Our dear friend FORMER REFEREE.HTML was smote down in the prime of his life by his own hubris. Truly, we must stop this war. His wife, a true bombshell by any estimation, simply drove him mad. I got this crowd together to help bury him, but its not a crowd that we need I guess. We need a gathering instead. Whatever though, this whole Neo-Orlando thing is certainly making me jaded these days. My assets have had a veritable freeze up on them and my brother moved back to Hoboken, New Jersey and it's been months since I've slept long, or slept well. But enough about me, will you help bear our brother to his final resting place."

Evan Fournier, Victor Oladipo, and Mo Harkless were moved to tears by the tale.

Evan Fournier held out his hand, and Joey Crawford took it and shook vigorously, perhaps too vigorously, but perhaps not. It was a new beginning.

Many years later, Victor Oladipo wrote in his journal, setting ink and quill to the faded yellow pages. It was the best of times. The last summer we were all together. Joey Crawford owns a general store now. And Evan Fournier's just two towns down now, working at Urban Outfitters. As for Mo Harkless, he got drafted to go to Vietnam and we never heard from him again. But I still remember that day. The day we became infinite.

Far away, in an alternate universe, Peter Graves was just finishing a televised biography about my (@thomasawful) life. "And that was the worst Fan Fiction he ever wrote. Goodnight everyone, I'm Peter Graves, and you're watching Biography."