A Series Of Subtitles

Alas, the 2011 NBA Playoffs are over. It’s been an enchanting two-month ride full of surprises. We’ve witnessed the rise of new blood and the fall of old mainstays. We watched as myths were ripped to pieces, as new myths emerged in their stead. And while only one series reached seven games, this postseason hosted some of the most unforgettable matches in recent memory. This is by no means all-encompassing, but here are a few storylines and events that helped define this year’s playoff experience for me. Hopefully it’ll help you relive a few of your own.

Chris Paul v. Derrick Rose: The Great Recreational Drug Debate

Our modern lexicon of point guards is (probably) best explained through drugs. Watching a player like Chris Paul is akin to the effects of cannabis in real-time. His actions on the court speak to an altered perception of time and space. Paul never loses his dribble, because at the speed he’s processing the court, there is no need to stop and think. There is a moment of query and of execution swiftly after. What appears to be six seconds from our vantage point is to Paul a lifetime of recollection, of past mistakes and triumphs. What follows is a play as close to perfection as time and space would allow. That’s Chris Paul.

Watching someone like Derrick Rose is picking and ingesting mushrooms in a forest off the side of the freeway. On the bright side, it hasn’t killed you, and your mind suddenly becomes a virtual slide projector of some of the most beautiful and chaotic images of puppies, war, and heaven. But then all of a sudden your friend is shaking you violently and you realize you’ve been curled up, crying and screaming for the past 20 minutes. A player capable of dragging you out of rational fandom and forcing you to abandon everything you ever knew about anything. That’s Derrick Rose.

Paul was kind enough to provide us a reminder of him at his most imposing; six games reminding us why we were so adamant in declaring him the best point guard in the league. Injuries have forced other names into the picture, but there is nothing quite like watching CP3 systematically disarm a defense. And although Rose’s playoff performance as a whole left something to be desired, the kind of impact he’s made at 22 is astounding. There’s also something to be said about leading a team to the Eastern Conference Finals with as little offensive help as conceivably possible.

Considering Rose’s Bulls survived much longer than Paul’s Hornets, the decision is really up to preference. Pick your poison, I guess.

The Atlanta Hawks and Dragonflies

The dragonfly
can’t quite land
on that blade of grass.

- Matsuo Bashō

It’s a funny image; akin to a dog chasing its own tail.  It’s also frustrating. No matter how intent the dragonfly is on landing on the blade of grass, there are forces of nature — the wind shoving not only the dragonfly, but the blade out of position — that make it difficult. The dragonfly battles against forces it can’t control. But there is indeed humor in our visualization, which maybe explains how we can poke fun at an underachieving and equally frustrating Atlanta Hawks team.

At worst, the Hawks are where systemic offenses are forcefully taken to rot. Creativity degrades to putrid levels, and uninspired isolation play is the only thing left.  At best, the team begins to resemble exactly what they’re made up of: athletic, versatile, and unselfish players that play hard and have a knack for the miraculous. The Hawks aren’t the ‘young team on the rise’ or much of a buzz-worthy team anymore. Years of potential improvement became years of stagnation as the team would find itself in all too familiar pitfalls.

But again, the Hawks are capable of surprises. Jeff Teague’s had inspiring performances for the entire series, and Josh Smith’s Game 4 was arguably his greatest game as an NBA player.

It’s odd to think that an injury possibly saved the Hawks’ future, but it might have. Watching Jeff Teague filled us with a certain childish joy we haven’t experienced from the Hawks since their first round thriller against the Boston Celtics in 2008. Teague maximized his time on court and maximized his athleticism in a way that, frankly, none of the bigger names seem capable of doing consistently.

Smith’s performance in Game 4 was shocking. Supplanting his long distance elbow jumpers (that had become increasingly cringe-worthy) with beautiful hook shots and attacks towards the rim, Smith’s offensive game was as close to fully realized than it’d ever been. The alleyoops to Al Horford were moments of revelation. A 6’9″ power forward shouldn’t have the capacity to toss half-court passes with such grace and confidence. His eight assists may not have been a career high, but they were smart, expertly timed passes that forced you to put some thought into Smith as a player, six years in, still oozing with potential.

But the Hawks aren’t a championship contending team in their current iteration. And these performances — especially Smith’s — are outliers unfit to carry the hopes and dreams of a stagnating franchise. The familiarity of the roster, which theoretically should breed chemistry has only developed listlessness. The dragonfly can continue to attempt its landing, but with nature working against it, it might be best to move on.

Indiana Jose (Juan Barea) and the Last Crusade

Do you think J.J. Barea looks in the mirror every morning and says to himself, “Hah, fooled them again”?

We root for Barea because he’s a spitting image of the everyman. Short, sturdy build with an unremarkable wingspan and vertical leap. Surely nothing an NBA Draft fetishist would find sexy. Mike Breen regaled us with the same story seemingly every playoff round about security guards not allowing him on court because he just doesn’t look the part of a successful athlete.  But if his last 21 games have shown us anything, it’s that Barea is a freak.

I am utterly convinced that Barea’s awful first few games in the Finals was one big practical joke. You don’t get rejected by the rim attempting wide open layups, and you surely don’t let that happen to you repeatedly, unless you’re someone like Jared Jeffries (or me). My theory is Barea was growing more and more aware of his amazing play. He had to fall back into that everyman role that his body (and our projections) have forced him into. …Right?

Far fetched? Sure. But who else could’ve guessed that Barea would be the best high pick-and-roll player remaining after the second round of the playoffs (the first round honors obviously go to Chris Paul)? Barea’s Steve Nash comparisons stem mainly from his probing with a continuous dribble, creating passing lanes and scoring opportunities.  Nash and Paul (as stated earlier) keep their dribble alive because there is little reason to stop the ball when you are manufacturing a play, or waiting for the perfect moment to set it into motion. This applies to J.J. too, but for him, it’s also a matter of necessity. At 5’8″, he isn’t going to be making smart passes at a standstill over a defender who will always be taller than him.

Of course, this is not yet mentioning the weird hangtime he seems to achieve on his patented circus layups, the strength he requires to get past other players in the paint, and the creativity and presence of mind to toss up such crazy shots.

So when Barea carves his way into the lane, it’s almost as though he’s playing the role of a super-archaeologist running through a cave before naturally monolithic structures collapse on him. You know, everyman stuff.

Growing Further Together

I had written months before the playoffs about the criticism Kevin Durant (and Derrick Rose) would face if he or his team didn’t live up to expectation. Little did I know then that Russell Westbrook would receive the bulk of the backlash.

After being benched for the entire fourth quarter of Game 2 in the Oklahoma City Thunder’s only win and James Harden handling the bulk of the playmaking in late game situations, Westbrook’s stock couldn’t have fallen lower. Westbrook’s rapid ascent to stardom warped our expectations of him as a point guard, and obscured our vision of the team’s building plan.

I literally freaked out when Westbrook was picked 4th overall in the 2008 NBA Draft. I thought he was just a raw athlete without any discernible skill that would translate in the league at either backcourt position. By the end of his rookie year, I ate an entire crow. Over the last three years, he’s somehow managed to force the league to conform to his chaos. He’s steadily improved his mid-range jumpshot while growing confident in his playmaking ability without compromising his inherent wrecking ball-style of play. He’s only 22 and he’s become a dynamic superstar-level talent while maintaining most of the weaknesses he’s had in college. This is not how most players develop. That Westbrook has improved so much and remains so raw is utterly confounding.

Westbrook is raw. GM Sam Presti knew this. That’s why 2009 brought James Harden — a justified pick that has silenced critics recently — via draft and Eric Maynor via trade. Both players were comfortable running plays and were expected to do so to help ease the pressure of Westbrook’s growth. Of course, both had their own growing pains to tend to leading up to this year’s playoffs, but Harden (now a legitimate third option for the Thunder) and Maynor (arguably the best backup point guard in the league) have proven themselves capable of carrying some of the burden, even as Westbrook’s star burns hotter and hotter.

It was supposed to be a gradual process, but Westbrook hasn’t been one for subtlety. His rise to elite status has been as heartwarming as his thoughtless shooting displays have been crushing. The Thunder’s playoff run has once again exposed questions in Westbrook’s game that require answers. There’s no hiding anymore. Westbrook still needs to learn how to play at different speeds, and learn to take contact on drives to avoid awkward loft-shots. And maybe this time, he’ll learn patience. Because the charge he leads, he does not lead alone. He is among friends.

Thomas Hoepker - Beijing (1984)

The Moment Where Chris Bosh Made Sense To Me

The Miami Heat don’t stand a chance on this possession. There are four guys surrounding the paint. The Chicago Bulls defense have the Heat flustered. There’s nowhere to go. Dwyane Wade, master swordsman, has to swing it over to Chris Bosh on the right for an impromptu baseline isolation play with six seconds remaining on the clock.

This is stupid.

Bosh swings his body, he faces up. A few fakes. An inconsequential jab step. Joakim Noah is not falling for your half-steps, Bosh!

This is stupid.

The shot goes up over Noah’s outstretched hands with two seconds left. It goes in.

This is stupid.

It was Bosh’s 24th point, and the third quarter wasn’t over yet. In Game 3 of the Eastern Conference Finals, Bosh had 13 offensive possessions — and just as many on the defensive end with stellar pick-and-roll defense against Derrick Rose – that commanded our attention. Each play demanded that we reconsider our stance on him as a player a conceived notion we’ve let simmer for months upon months.  The shot he made over Noah in the 3rd? That’s what won me over.

It was the shot that forced me to stop looking at Bosh as a walking cost-benefit analysis where the analysis never got past ‘cost’. We’ve made jokes — a steady flow of comedic gold and pyrite that ridiculed a failed blueprint, tempered our expectations, and rationalized the impact (or lack thereof) that Bosh had on the team.

And yet, for me, at least, there was a fine print to all of the remarks. In the subtext was the notion that what we saw in our dreams and nightmares was a myth, not something that could be etched into reality. Bosh can’t exist beyond the jokes and memes we’ve attributed to him. Once he does, that’s when we concede that this team is close to achieving a state of fluidity that transcends position, role, or status.

Small sample sizes tell me to stop overreacting. Chris Bosh playing his heart out in the most important games of his entire career tell me something else. You start to believe what you say if you say it enough. But life has funny ways of telling you you’re wrong. There may be problems with the Miami Heat, but at this point, they’ve got little to do with Bosh.

Coda

To accept a new myth about ourselves is to simplify our memories — and to place our stamp of approval on what might become an epitaph for our era in the shorthand of history. This, in my opinion, is why critics often condemn our most significant books and poems and plays when they first appear, while praising feebler creations. The birth of a new myth fills them with primitive dread, for myths are so effective. - Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

In history, eras are given dates, lines of demarcation, fabricating a time of genesis and conclusion. But life doesn’t fragment that way. We pass through movements fluidly, only recognizing beginnings and ends when they’ve since passed us by. So it’s only fitting that the first chapter of this post-Post-Jordan era of the NBA is penned by holdovers of an earlier period.

Maybe this Mavericks’ championship run was exactly what we needed. We don’t know when we’ll be watching the next NBA game. And what if our fears manifest in the worst possible way? What if we’re stripped of an entire year of basketball? That’s a year that aging veterans like Nowitzki and Kidd can’t afford to lose. The Mavericks’ championship run was a fight — and a victory — against time. It was a run that legitimized and solidified the respect we have for not only the players, but their respective (and collective) journeys. A year can take a lot out of a player, but nothing can take away a championship.

And so we rejoice in their victory because in a way, it embodies our own struggles with the impending lockout. At best, the owners and the Players’ Association settle their differences, and we carry on as though the entire situation was a horrible dream. But likely, the Mavericks’ victory becomes a figment of nostalgia — a drawing of the curtains with lights fading, signifying an intermission of undetermined length. Conversely, after all the hate/ridicule/scrutiny the Heat have faced, how would the NBA landscape have changed if they won it all? We anxiously anticipated a revolution, and while they’ve (needless to say) underwhelmed in that regard, their victory would have carried us into the lockout under far different circumstances: with light bulbs shattering, leaving everyone screaming in the dark.

We don’t know how the next season will start, but we know how this season ended. This is a farewell of sorts to the 2010-11 season, but the stories and memories amassed aren’t going anywhere.

Here’s to the incredible season that was. And here’s to many more, lockout be damned.