On Steph defense RT @ThomasAwful: @Money23Green Awesome win Dray. Sup with giving people a taste of their own blood though?
— Draymond Green (@Money23Green) November 3, 2014Sunday, November 2, 2014
Let them Eat Blood
The Boogie Enigma
Hello everyone (hello Dave), and welcome to Garbage Time Pump Faker's first guest post, courtesy of the mysterious Jon Getz!
You can follow Jon Getz at @jongetz09 where he'll overreact about Vanderbilt football and occasionally has humorous thoughts, and sometimes wonders if he is that pick up guy.
I'm torn on Boogie Cousins. On the one hand, he's been one of
the few legitimate no-brainer double-double threats every single night since he
came into the league four years ago, and on the other, he's
just...volatile.
Sacramento's win today against the Clippers was a microcosm of
Boogie (who, let's be honest, has the best nickname in the NBA--what's more fun
than screaming BOOOGIIEEEEEEE after he puts the fear of God into Jonas
Valanciunas). He put up a 34/17/5 with three blocks, the Kings ran the offense
through him in the last four minutes, and he had two beautiful drop passes down
low that you would expect from someone like Steve Nash rather than a 6'11''
center. On the other hand, he looked disinterested, jogged up the court, and
almost lost Sacramento the game with a stupid offensive goaltending on a
Collison shot that was going in with 24.4 second left in the game.
Do we care too much about Boogie's "body language?"
Would we even notice his sour looks if he didn't have his reputation? Probably,
but that's like saying "if LeBron wasn't LeBron, people would call him a
terrible teammate for embarrassing Mario Chalmers on a nightly basis last
year." Most of the time, you earn both the free passes and criticisms you
get.
I think the Boogie enigma, as much we want him to turn into a
Tim Duncan-type that just goes about his business and doesn't mope when he
doesn't get the ball for three possessions in a row, can be summed up like
this--Boogie is the ridiculously talented pick-up basketball player that you
just don't want to play with. You know the guy--he's got a wet jumper, killer
handles, and can get to the rim whenever he wants, but if he thinks he got
passed up when he was open he's going to walk back on D, leaving your team to
play four on five defense. You'd almost prefer to play with a bunch of your
buddies and risk losing the game (and then be relegated to pick-up purgatory,
when there are eight guys who all "have next") than play with that
guy and be guaranteed at least three straight wins. At least you and your
teammates can bond over how much it sucks to play with him. Sometimes your
Boogie is actually fun to play with, you enjoy yourself, and get to stay on the
court for a bunch of games in a row. But the issue is when you start losing.
And with Darren Collison leading your team, losing is in Boogie's future. We'll see how long he can hold it together, because if he can, we're going to witness something really special.
And with Darren Collison leading your team, losing is in Boogie's future. We'll see how long he can hold it together, because if he can, we're going to witness something really special.
You can follow Jon Getz at @jongetz09 where he'll overreact about Vanderbilt football and occasionally has humorous thoughts, and sometimes wonders if he is that pick up guy.
25 Things Klay Thompson Does Not Reminds Me of & 25 Things Klay Thompson Reminds Me Of
25 Things Klay Thompson Does Not Remind Me Of
1. Punk rock. Any kind, from any time
2. A recently extinguished campfire at a Methodist retreat when you are 14
3. The collected works of Isaac Asimov
4. New Order covering "Love Will Tear Us Apart"
5. The laughter of hyenas before a kill
6. Mychal Thompson
7. Falling down a flight of stairs in front of the woman you love
8. A guy who enjoys black and white movies
9. An empty Fugazi show
10. A messy apartment
11. Being slightly late for a job interview
12. Eating the last donut
13. Getting sucker punched, bragging that it didn't hurt
14. Stephen Curry
15. The Wire Season 4
16. A committed relationship
17. A long embrace with your estranged father
18. Holding the door open for a stranger
19. Helping a friend move
20. Bloodsport
21. Baseball
22. Cool hair
23. Coke Zero
24. Blues scale
25. Being upset when the Crocodile Hunter died
and on the other side of the pretend coin:
25 Things Klay Thompson Reminds Me Of
1. A guitar solo that goes on a few seconds too long
2. Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me
3. The wide eyed innocence of a newborn babe on dope
4. A misattributed quote
5. 3 of the 7 samurai from Seven Samurai
6. Microwave dinners, specifically those of the Lean Cuisine variety
7. Interpol's discography
8. Satan, if he was a little younger
9. Ordering a Philly Cheesesteak from an abrasive and racist cheeseteak joint
10. The second option we've been dreaming of
11. Trying to learn Farsi, giving up, trying again
12. A fear of ghosts
13. Pepsi Max
14. Waving at someone who was actually waving at the person behind you
15. Movies with swords
16. Extremely basic dance moves
17. The subjunctive
18. Washing a car while listening to "Jesse's Girl"
19. Flip flops with socks
20. 25 points per game
21. In-N-Out Burger
22. A barely noticeable earthquake
23. College radio
24. Worn down colored pencils
25. Gigli
1. Punk rock. Any kind, from any time
2. A recently extinguished campfire at a Methodist retreat when you are 14
3. The collected works of Isaac Asimov
4. New Order covering "Love Will Tear Us Apart"
5. The laughter of hyenas before a kill
6. Mychal Thompson
7. Falling down a flight of stairs in front of the woman you love
8. A guy who enjoys black and white movies
9. An empty Fugazi show
10. A messy apartment
11. Being slightly late for a job interview
12. Eating the last donut
13. Getting sucker punched, bragging that it didn't hurt
14. Stephen Curry
15. The Wire Season 4
16. A committed relationship
17. A long embrace with your estranged father
18. Holding the door open for a stranger
19. Helping a friend move
20. Bloodsport
21. Baseball
22. Cool hair
23. Coke Zero
24. Blues scale
25. Being upset when the Crocodile Hunter died
and on the other side of the pretend coin:
25 Things Klay Thompson Reminds Me Of
1. A guitar solo that goes on a few seconds too long
2. Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me
3. The wide eyed innocence of a newborn babe on dope
4. A misattributed quote
5. 3 of the 7 samurai from Seven Samurai
6. Microwave dinners, specifically those of the Lean Cuisine variety
7. Interpol's discography
8. Satan, if he was a little younger
9. Ordering a Philly Cheesesteak from an abrasive and racist cheeseteak joint
10. The second option we've been dreaming of
11. Trying to learn Farsi, giving up, trying again
12. A fear of ghosts
13. Pepsi Max
14. Waving at someone who was actually waving at the person behind you
15. Movies with swords
16. Extremely basic dance moves
17. The subjunctive
18. Washing a car while listening to "Jesse's Girl"
19. Flip flops with socks
20. 25 points per game
21. In-N-Out Burger
22. A barely noticeable earthquake
23. College radio
24. Worn down colored pencils
25. Gigli
On Being Wrong, and Why We Bother: Toronto at Orlando
It’s a difficult line to walk, between saying that an individual game means something and that it’s a long season, and a lot can change. There are some people—cough cough—who would have you believe that the shiny bubbles that wash up to our feet in the surf of countless hours of regular season basketball are actually enough. There are some who would suggest that the glimmers of hope or spikes of despair mean everything, that you can accurately predict something about the future from what we’ve seen so far—cough cough. There are some who would tell you it doesn’t mean anything and that you should be watching football right now. And then I suppose there’s me, just trying to make some sense of this Magic team.
Welcome to today’s installation in my slow journey into masochistic madness, the Orlando Magic versus the Toronto Raptors. First, let me say, I was wrong. I apologize. I said that Luke Ridnour should start over Elfrid Payton. Elf was out there, doing it. He had a few beautiful assists and a dunk he can frame and put on his mantle.
What does one game against the Raptors mean? Nothing. But I’ve found that I care. Not for the elegance of small instances of perfection, not for the purposes of wager-advice prognostication. As Alex suggested previously, we care because we can’t not care.
Vucevic and Channing Frye and even Evan “Transform” Fournier performed, yet it wasn’t enough. During the early late third and early fourth quarter moments of hope, you would see a Magic player battling through to make an improbable shot on his possession, and a Raptors player responding with an apparently easy basket in transition. The Magic eventually regressed to the mean and the final score, I believe, represents the game that was played.
Elfrid looked just a hairsbreadth away from ready, and maybe the rest of the team is in the same boat. Until then, I’m here with you. Because where else would I be?
-David
Stray thought:
Joey Colon, you are my ray of sunshine. Every game.
-David
Stray thought:
Joey Colon, you are my ray of sunshine. Every game.
"Wale - Wizards Creative Liason"
Times are I can’t remember whether it used to be Nene Hilario or Hilario Nene.
For those who prefer the bangaround, you’ve-got-four-fouls-left-to-give brand of basketball, Wizards-Bucks was your make and model, with a pine-scented air freshener jangling on the rearview.
It was rarely pretty. Paul Pierce received a clear path, a tech, and then another tech off of one play. I talked to a war veteran once before a terrifying midterm, asked him if he was nervous. His response? “Dude I was in Fallujah. Men in tweed don’t scare me any more.” I’m pretty sure getting stabbed a dozen times similarly changes the way you think about referees.
Randy Wittman shows some tough love:
Pierce’s ejection was a blessing in disguise. Otto Porter, steampunk scoring engineer, had all valves humming appropriately. Jerryd “He Went to Jerryd” Bayless, after getting blocked a near-comical number of times, proceed to deliver shooting justice from the perimeter, and really would’ve closed the gap in the late game if not for the Otto Porter explosion. Fans chanted the name, appropriately.
Marcin Gortat continues to embarrass inferior talent in the paint. Looking forward to having a better idea what that means against the higher-tier teams.
Go forth and be happy, Wizards fans. You’re fine without Beal for now.
Stray note:
What are you doing here, Wale? No one likes you.
Stray note:
What are you doing here, Wale? No one likes you.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
Die Together or Live Alone
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."
Rose and Injuries: A Hamfisted Thinkpiece
Derrick Rose came down wrong and sprained his ankle. He tried to play a few minutes before being shuttled off to the locker room under the pretense that he’s fine and we’re just erring on the side of caution.
We use different registers of voice to talk about injuries in the NBA and injuries in the NFL. Neurological damage can happen, certainly, but it’s rare enough that—at least for now—it falls within the margin of acceptability for Wholesome American Sporting Contest Entertainment. Most of what we see is broken bones, torn ligaments, things that wouldn’t be devastating unless you live within the small group of people for whom those bones and ligaments make many millions of dollars.
So there’s a broad range of responses. Players are sometimes called to “play through,” and praised when they do so, even if the long-term results are undesirable for both team and player. Isaiah Thomas’ game on a sprained ankle comes to mind.
“Why is he crying? My friend tore his ACL and played three more minutes of soccer before he realized what happened.” We hear suchlike on couches, at bars. “They have insurance,” even. We forget, I think that money plays only a partial role in the lives and motivations of these people. Most of them, from a very young age, have been groomed to play and promised hope through sports, and almost only sports. By high school that becomes one sport, and before too long that becomes a life. The game becomes about having a meaningful life, about crafting an immortal name, and about having the chance to truly express one's self. Not to give a byline, but to portray something that transcends language. To be the subject of a parable about hard work to younger generations, to be one of the enigmatic, untouchable myths people make careers out of failing to interpret. You can get paid and still lose something incalculable.
We can debate if there’s something wrong in the way players are taught the game, or that they’re encouraged to play wrong. Doubtless, in some ways, that’s true. As in all else, we will continue to refine the ways to play and to teach. Maybe players cut too aggressively. Maybe we don’t really have a model for what happens when a man of Derrick Rose's or Russell Westbrook’s size moves in the way that they do. And even if these and others never find ways to reconcile their modes of playing the game with not being injured, their lives will continue. Again, thankfully, death and brain damage are not high on the basketball worry list. But it’s a genuine disappointment not to see them on the court. Hope everybody’s okay.
-David
-David
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