Nash & Nowitzki Retrospective

Dirk's on the precipice of a championship while his best bud Nash sits at home. Doesn't feel quite right, does it? Things might be different if Cuban didn't opt for Erick Dampier instead of the eventual two-time MVP. But I digress.

Here are my 5 favorite pictures of the erstwhile Dynamic Duo:


Dirk's either saying what's up to Buck Showalter or ordering two more lagers from the bierfrau. Nash, meanwhile, is rolling his tits off.


This is why I love Steve Nash. In a league of image conscious egomaniacs, he's always down to play the fool.


Cowboy Up, as they say. Most surprising thing about this masterpiece? That Cuban can actually carry Dirk without throwing his back out. Nice Mom jeans and Mavericks Intensity t-shirt, Mark.


Just a hunch but I bet the bros were really into Moby back in the day. Donnie Boozeface looks hammered as usual.


Speaking of hammered...ahem. Perhaps the greatest photo in NBA history. This is probably the night Dirk met Crystal Taylor.

Best of luck to you, Dirk. Bring home the title for the little guy...and all the humble homies that just want to get wasted and dance with their shirts unbuttoned.

Twitter Dork Bro-Down

Last night I hooked up with three dudes I met online.




No, it wasn't random sex in a cheap hotel room but rather a meeting of hoops fans who'd been sharing ideas and jokes for years now.



Twitter/blogosphere pals Seth Johnston, Travis Margoni, Joe Morris and I decided to congregate at Portland's Slow Bar to see if our friendship stood the test of actually having to be in the same room with each other.




A little personal backstory: since the birth of my daughter eight months ago, I've seen my social life practically vanish. I used to be in a band. I used to go to clubs, bars, parties and concerts. Now I have playdates with other parents and trips to the park with the stroller. The idea of making new guy friends and doing manly things appealed to me.



The fellas were more or less what I expected them to be- smart dudes with good senses of humor. But the meeting had an awkward blind date kinda vibe until we got a few drinks in us. And started talking basketball.



Our waiter looked exactly like a young Lindsey Buckingham. The music was loud but Lindsey B had an annoyingly quiet speaking voice. Not surprisingly, he got my drink order wrong.








The conversation started with funny stories about being unfollowed on Twitter and whether or not someone should take that personally and unfollow back as revenge.



Then we moved on to pondering Blazers defense and what effect pace plays on its overall ranking. I asked if the Brandon Roy buyout story was legit and everyone felt that John Canzano pulled that out of his ass and that his "inside source" was probably his own imagination. The group agreed to be each other's inside sources for future breaking Blazer news (Nate McMillan diagnosed with cancer!).



I was getting drunk and talking too much.



The topic turned to this year's Finals. I expressed my belief that the Heat were going to win, even though I dreaded the possibility. Everyone concurred that they were temporary Mavs fans simply because they didn't want to see Miami holding the trophy.




Despite our collective malevolence, we all agreed that LeBron James was the league's MVP again this year and that he's officially underrated now, somehow. We even pondered the possibility that he might be a sensitive soul who's really torn up inside over the public reaction to his offseason theatrics. Poor LeBron.



Time passed quickly. Drinks kept coming. Lindsey B was replaced by a rocker chick with sufficient volume to project over Danzig and Metallica. I'm sure we were louder by now, too.



We talked about the Bird/Dirk comparisons. Seth mentioned Nowitzki's Australian walkabout as a sort of vision quest that allowed him to find his focus. We laughed about Dirk's relationship with his creepy shooting/life coach whose name was escaping us.



"German Goldschlager. (laughs). No, wait, what is it?"


"Herman Goldfinger."

"Werner Knobschlobber."



More laughter. At this point in the evening, I suddenly felt like these guys were my friends. Gotta love the bonding powers of alcohol. And sports. And Holger Geschwinder.








Suddenly it was nearing closing time. We'd been there about four hours. Everyone was bleary-eyed. We said our goodbyes and agreed that another Bro-Down should be planned in the future. Good times, good group of guys.



Pictured: me, Seth and Joe (photo by Travis)

All-Star Party Crashers

I've crashed a party or two in my day. Most of the time, it's gone pretty smoothly. But on rare occasion, my uninvited presence hasn't been welcomed. I'm standing there trying to look inconspicuous as I drink the free booze when suddenly there's a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and it's some indignant bastard saying things like "Who do you know here?" or "How did you get in?" or "I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."

It's an embarrassing feeling when everyone at a party knows you don't belong.

That's about to happen to some lucky stiff at this year's All-Star Game. Everyone in the building will eyeball one sorry motherfucker and collectively think "What the fuck's HE doing here?" Because it happens that way every single year. Don't believe me?

Chris Kaman, David Lee and Gerald Wallace played in last year's game. Forgot that, didn't you?

In 2009, Mo Williams, Devin Harris and David West magically appeared in uniform.

2008- David West again. Guy's like a ninja, hard to detect. He can really blend into a crowd of superstars. For this adaptive quality alone, David West might be the best crasher of them all.

2007- Caron Butler, Josh Howard, Mehmet Okur. Can't you picture these three standing awkwardly around the punch bowl?

2005- Big Z, Shawn Marion, Rashard Lewis, Antawn Jamison.

2004- Jamaal Magloire, perhaps the least talented player to ever get a nod, puts up 19/8 without a hint of irony. The ultimate crash. AK47, Mike Redd and Brad Miller also attend the evening's festivities.

2002- Shareef Abdur-Rahim and Wally Szczerbiak? Really?! C'mon, man! Fuckouttahere!

2001- Antonio Davis, Theo Ratliff.

2000- Dale Davis, Michael Finley.

1998- Drunk-ass Vin Baker missed 9 out of 12 shots. He didn't miss the open bar afterwards.

1997- Tom Gugliotta, Chris Gatling, Christian Laettner.

1996- Vin Baker, not yet at rock bottom, only misses 3/5 (though he does leave the building with a lampshade on his head).

1995- Dana Barros and Tyrone Hill. For reals. Hill was forced to play the game with a protective mask when his butt-ugly face kept scaring little children.

1994- Whose dick was BJ Armstrong sucking? Wait, nevermind. I remember now.

1992- Michael Adams, Otis Thorpe.

Alright, that's far back enough to make the point.

So who's this year's impostor? Kevin Love? Luis Scola? Ray Felton? Don't get me wrong- all of these dudes are good players. They just don't look quite right rubbing elbows with the elite.

Pictured: Tyrone Hill without the mask

An Awkward Conversation With My Greg Oden Bobblehead

We're moving to a new house next week. So I went down to the basement today to figure out what to pack and what to get rid of. Near a shelf of old books and CD's, I had an unexpected encounter with my Greg Oden Bobblehead doll. It was awkward, to say the least.








I'd forgotten he was even down there, honestly. I'd stashed him after the celebration in Pioneer Square following the 2007 Draft- the golden days before everything fell apart. I was convinced he'd be worth something someday.



Needless to say, a lot of stuff has happened since then, bad stuff- catastrophes this miniature figurine was completely unaware of. His eyes gleamed with hope.




GOB: Hey, man! So good to see you!

Me: Oh. Hey.



I shifted my weight back and forth and averted my eyes. He stared and fondled his basketball nervously.



GOB: How long have I been down here?

Me: Three years.

GOB: Three years? (long pause) So what's going on with my career? Am I an All-Star yet?


Me: Uh...not exactly.

GOB: Why? What happened?



He wasn't going to let me off the hook.



Me: Well...damn. Shit. Fuck it, I'm just gonna tell you everything. You get hurt as soon as the season starts. You keep getting hurt after that. At one point, you get hurt getting off your couch. You gain a lot of weight. You grow cornrows. You have a permanent sad face. People compare you to Sam Bowie and Erick Dampier. It ain't pretty, man. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot- you text some chick your dong and it ends up on the internet. You have to publicly apologize. Not for the dick. Everyone gives you major props for the dick. But you apologize for the sexting. It's called sexting.

GOB: Sexting?

Me: Sexting. And Kevin Durant, the guy taken immediately behind you, turns into a superstar who leads the league in scoring every year. Your name becomes synonymous with FAIL.




At this point, my diminutive friend broke into tears, his head bobbling dejectedly.



Me: Hey, it's okay, little guy. It's not all bad. When you did play, you played pretty well. And someone will probably pay you a lot of money soon to try again. It might not be here in Portland, though. People are skittish about you here now.



Then he was suddenly angry and defensive.



GOB: Why'd you leave me down here so long?

Me: Honestly, you kinda bum me out. You remind me of what could have been. Look at you- all lean and hungry. You can barely move these days. It's really, really, really sad.




I struggled to find the right words, comforting words. He broke the silence instead.



GOB: What are you doing down here?

Me: We're moving. I'm trying to figure out what to throw away.

GOB: Are you gonna throw me away?

Me: I have a kid now. And you're bad news bears, man. It's like there's a curse on you, like the tiki idol from the Brady Bunch Hawaii episode. I don't want you around my daughter.


GOB: That's some fucked up shit.

Me: I know. I'm sorry.



Yet another cringe-inducing silence.



GOB: Congrats on your daughter.

Me: Thanks.

GOB: Are you getting rid of me right now?


Me: No. We don't move for another week. I'm just seeing what's down here.

GOB: Cool. Thanks. Seriously. I appreciate the second chance.

Me: No, it's not really a second...

GOB: (interrupting) I won't let you down this time.

Me: (sigh) I know you won't, Greg. I know you won't.



I patted his little head like I would a puppy's. He lowered his gaze and stared at the floor.



Then I went back up the stairs. I could hear his tiny sobs and the click-click-click of his neck as I reached the top step and shut off the light.

NBA's Weakest Links

A good gameplan is invaluable in the NBA. It's the difference between a win and a loss most nights.

More often than not, the gameplan is built around attacking the other team's weakest link. It's like a nature show- the predators circle the herd until they can single out the old, clumsy one to be their dinner.

Here's a team-by-team listing of who opposing coaches consistently try to exploit:

ATLANTA
Mike Bibby. The dude couldn't guard me, much less NBA-level point guards. When Jamal Crawford enters the fray, he becomes the target.

BOSTON
They don't really have an Achilles Heel to speak of. Maybe that's why they keep going the Finals.

CHARLOTTE
DJ Augustin wears a bullseye every night. Boris Diaw is soft like cookie dough.

CHICAGO
Derrick Rose has improved a bit but is still viewed as a favorable matchup by most coaches.

CLEVELAND
Anyone not named Anderson Varejao will do but Mo Williams and Antawn Jamison are usually the focal points.

DALLAS
Kidd and Dirk both get isolated a lot on the perimeter because of their lack of footspeed.

DENVER
Whoever Al Harrington or Melo guards has a big night.

DETROIT
Ben Gordon and Charlie V both play D like cancer patients.

GS
Only Dorell Wright defends. Take your pick from anyone else.

HOUSTON
Kevin Martin and Aaron Brooks have a rep for only playing one side of the ball.

INDY
Mike Dunleavy. Too easy.

LA CLIPS
Another toss up. When you can score easily on everyone, why bother singling someone out? That's just cruel.

LA LAKERS
Derek Fisher. Fish has had trouble staying in front of PGs for ages now. Russell Westbrook devoured him in the playoffs last year.

MEMPHIS
Z-Bo has blocked one shot this year. He might as well cherry pick on every possession.

MIAMI
Carlos Arroyo is the Puerto Rican Mike Bibby.

MILWAUKEE
Cory Maggette and defense go together like vodka and milk. Drew Gooden also loses interest when he's not shooting the ball.

MINNESOTA
Again, too many options. All you need to do is move the ball around. Kevin Love makes Brad Miller look like Usain Bolt.

NJ
Devin Harris' guy can take it easy and let everyone else feast. Trout and Bropez take the most abuse.

New Orleans
Marco Belinelli has inherited geriatric Peja's role as 'one-dimensional shooter who can't defend for shit.' It's amazing to me they're winning so much, honestly.

New York
Why is Amar'e so aggressive on offense yet so passive on D? He's got the physical tools to be a great defender but lacks the grit. Can you imagine Charles Oakley in Stoudemire's body?

OKC
Last year, their D was great. This year, not so much. I refuse to believe Shawn Livingston was the difference.

ORLANDO
Rashard Lewis, Vince Carter and Jameer get lots of attention. Problem is, all three have the best defensive big man in the game behind them to erase mistakes and blown assignments. A nice luxury.

PHILLY
Elton Brand even looks like a hobbled old water buffalo. Try him first.

PHOENIX
Steve Nash, all day, every day.

PORTLAND
Brandon Roy's knees are reportedly bone-on-bone. Go after him. Or Andre Miller.

UPDATE: Roy missed tonight's game. Ruh roh.

SACTO
Beno is Slovenian for 'help.' Just kidding, it actually means 'rapist.' Still kidding. I have no idea what Beno means in Slovenian.

SA
Tony Parker, DeJuan Blair, Matt Bonner. In his career, Tim Duncan's covered up more mistakes than the Pentagon.

TORONTO
Last year, Andrea Bargnani proved he was too earthbound to check centers. This year, he's too lumbering to stay with power forwards.

UTAH
Al Jefferson's currently playing out of position at C. Go inside early and often.

WASHINGTON
Gilbert's a notoriously crappy defender. So's Yi Jianlian. And Al Thornton. And JaVale McGee. No gameplan necessary.

So there you have it. Now you can be an NBA coach.

Before signing off I'd like to point out that advance defensive stats don't always support my selections. But with as much covering and helping as happens in most NBA games, it's rare that the initial matchup is what results in the made basket. A typical play would be more like this: Bibby's man beats him off the dribble, gets into the paint, dishes to a wide open shooter, scrambling defense rotates, open shooter dishes to even more wide open shooter, made bucket- all because Bibby couldn't keep his guy out of the paint. Statistically, Bibby doesn't get 'credited' with giving up the basket because two passes occurred after his blown assignment. But he's the reason the defense fails, whether stats show that or not.

Pictured: Bibby in familiar territory- trailing the play, ten feet off the ball with his hands down

Daughter 1, Basketball 0

First off, let me apologize for not posting anything in months now. My newborn daughter has taken up most of my time (yes, I'm already blaming her for my shortcomings). The little munchkin has prevented me from watching my usual regimen of games. My basketball fandom exists in fifteen minute increments now- catch a quarter of basketball while she's napping, tweet a few witty comments, then get back to the rocking, bouncing and diaper changes.

And I've been missing some really terrific writing opportunities, too. The first month of this season has already produced a profound fall from grace for LeBron James, a resurgence of the left-for-dead New Orleans Hornets, Rajon Rondo's John Stockton impression, KG calling Charlie V a "cancer patient" and Kevin Love's absolutely ridiculous 30/30 game. Juicy plotlines galore.

I'm also interested in exploring what's wrong with the Thunder. Or why Baron Davis is such a slug. Or how Steve Nash could have a baby one day and get a divorce the next. Or what it was like for Joakim Noah to grow up with famous parents.

And I'm DYING to do a piece called 10 Things You Didn't Know About Reggie Evans.

These things intrigue me. But not nearly as much as making my little girl smile. I might be lost for good. I might be in transition from hardcore to casual fan. This blog might be an afterthought. Or I could teach her to love basketball as much as I do. We'll see...

All I can say at this point is follow me on Twitter. I'm good for a couple jokes a day.

Pictured: my ruin

Fuck Riley Coyote

Erik Spoelstra has to be pretty nervous these days. The most back-stabbing, self-centered, politically ambitious coach in history is breathing down his neck, waiting for the right opportunity to swoop in and take over. In truth, Spo would probably be fired already if it weren't for the support of Dwyane Wade.

Think I'm being too critical of Riles? The guy's won 5 rings. He's one of the best basketball strategists of all time. And he just pulled off the NBA's biggest free agent heist in recent memory, landing LeBron James and Chris Bosh in South Beach.

Still a total dick. Here's why:

-Paul Westhead gave Riley his first job as an assistant coach in 1979. Riley had previously been in the Lakers broadcast booth. But when Laker players mutinied to get Westhead fired in 1981, did Riles back his coach/benefactor? Nope. Instead, he waited quietly in the wings. And when Jerry West declined Buss' offer to take over for the deposed Westhead, the job fell in Riley's lap.

-He resigned as Laker coach in 1990 amid rumors of player mistreatment and anger management issues. Gee, maybe using Sun Tzu's The Art Of War as your guide to doing business might rub people the wrong way.

-In 1995, he left his job as Knicks head coach in a dust-up of tampering and burned bridges to join the Heat. New Yorkers still hate him. Nothing makes a Knicks fan happier than seeing the clip of Allan Houston hitting that runner to cap the Knicks first round upset of top-seed Miami in 1999.

-Since coming to South Beach, he's repeatedly gone back and forth between manning the front office and sabotaging his coaches to take credit for their hard work. Randy Pfund and Stan Van Gundy probably have his picture on their dartboards. Now Spoelstra is in prime position to be the next guy with a knife in the back.

-After winning the title in 2006, Riley's Heat visited the White House. Riley slobbered all over W's knob, saying "I voted for the man. If you don't vote, you don't count."

Fuck Pat Riley. He and LeBron deserve each other. It makes perfect sense to me that LeBron is about to spend fifty million on a home that Riley used to own. In an era when one out of every six people on the planet is starving to death, you've got to be a total fucking narcissist to spend fifty million on a house.

I curse you, Heat. I fart in your general direction. May thirty years of bad karma wash over you like gentle rain.

Pictured: Coyote/Gecko