Photo by John-Morgan on Flickr

 “…The Cleveland Cavaliers select Kyrie Irving, Point Guard, Duke.”

It hadn’t started out well, but how could it? Not only had he been chosen with the first pick in the NBA draft, he had been chosen by a team that had just endured the roughest offseason-season combo in recent memory. Cleveland had embraced him, but its inhabitants were racked by the trepidations of their own embrace. Expectation was typical for Kyrie Irving. He could handle that. But the resurgence of the hopes and dreams of an entire city? That would be a tougher burden to handle.

Kyrie’s interactions with his teammates were considerably less plagued with struggle and importance. They had embraced him as a sign of hope after the dismal campaign of the previous year. Here was a young, smart kid that just maybe had a chance to get them out of the league’s mockery cellar. Kyrie had been especially surprised by Baron Davis’s constant joviality. He had read the stories about Baron, which painted him as both affable and apathetic. Kyrie only saw the smiling, mentoring side of Baron from the moment he walked into the Cavs’ practice facility.

Baron had been shooting three pointers in the corner, isolated at his own hoop. Kyrie had slowly shifted around, unsure of what do first.

“You gonna pick up a ball, or what?” Baron turned and asked, his beard bristling.

“Yeah.”

“Well, quit waiting. Practice starts in 15 minutes and you need to work on that Duke jumper, Shane Battier.” For whatever reason, Baron took to calling NBA players from Duke “Shane Battier”. Even Grant Hill.

Kyrie strode over past the talking coaches and grabbed a ball. Baron was back to shooting, and Kyrie joined him. A quiet competition began between the two, as neither said anything while each of them swished three pointer after three pointer.  Eventually, Kyrie clanged one off the back of the rim. Baron gave a slight smile.

“You’re gonna need to tighten that form up a little, Shane Battier.”

Kyrie smiled and drained another three.

But Kyrie wasn’t a miracle worker. Cleveland’s season began much in the same vein as before he arrived, with a 6-14 start. The consensus seemed to be he was “doing ok”. “First-year point guards always need to make adjustments. He’s on a bad team, and he’s shown flashes.”, the analysts said. And he wasn’t doing badly. Splitting minutes with Baron and averaging 13 and 6 was no reason for anyone to be upset, at least not yet.

But it wasn’t enough. Kyrie wanted more than individual adequacy.

After a particularly tough loss to the Celtics, 97-73, Kyrie could only feel a sense of numbing fatigue. He sat by his locker with a towel over his head, staring at the carpet. Baron came up to him as Byron Scott finished delivering his message to the team and drifted out of the locker room.

“Get that towel off your head.” Baron stared down at him from a few feet away.

“I’m not bothering anyone,” Kyrie mumbled.

“Get that towel off your head. Come on, kid. You’ve barely played any games and you’re gonna look defeated like this? No, that isn’t you. That can’t be you. This team can’t afford for that to be you.”

Kyrie said nothing for a second and then jumped up. Baron patted him on the back and walked back to his locker.

He had a media interview later that day. He felt a sense of unfocused determination.  At least it was better than drudgery.

“How do you feel about the team so far?” The familiar microphone was pushed into Kyrie’s face.

“We’re not winning games, but this is a group of guys that really care and really try. We’ll figure it out.”

“What about your own play?”

“I can do better, and I will. It’s going to happen, just like it’s going to happen for this team. I’ll let you decide whether or not to write that I’m playing well.”

“How do you feel about the matchup with the Heat coming up?”

“It’s another game, and that means we’re going to do our best to win it. That’s all.”

What else could he say? “The entire city and much of our team will likely view this as some kind of cathartic experience.”? That might be true, but it wasn’t the kind of thing the “face of the franchise” was supposed to say. He knew that, whether or not he agreed with the sentiment. The next game was going to be different, but Kyrie wanted it to be different for the right reasons.

He woke up the morning of the Heat game feeling more invigorated than any other day in his life. At least, that’s what it felt like. His breakfast tasted better, his body felt great, and his mind seemed to vibrate with energy. Everything just felt right. Even Christian Eyenga’s jump shot looked better during practice.

Outside the arena, Clevelanders were already beginning to gather. Even though they had been through this ordeal the year before, the feeling of an important night still permeated in their hearts and minds. Maybe some of the virulence was gone, but the signs and the emotion remained, just as strong as ever.

The team seemed to feel it too, whether or not the casual observer could tell. Kyrie could see it. The intensity and concentration of the team’s eyes as Byron Scott outlined the team’s plan (“Force Wade to shoot, quickly double Bosh, etc.”) translated into Kyrie’s mood as well. This was a big game for him. He was no LeBron, but this was his city now.

From the opening tipoff, it was apparent this game would be different than last year’s. The Heat were confused by the Cavaliers offense. Omri Casspi couldn’t miss a three, Kyrie darted in and out of the lane with the poise of Steve Nash, and Tristan Thompson finally seemed to be coming into his own offensive skillset. “The dunks, they are a clangin”, Bob Dylan would have written. LeBron spent much of the first quarter holding back and distributing the ball. The score went back-and-forth, and the arena grew more and more alive with every basket. There would be no fading in this game. Kyrie wouldn’t allow that. Not tonight.

As he sat at the bench following a 27-27 first quarter, Kyrie made eye contact with a young fan holding a big sign, reading “Cavs, Reborn!” He smiled at Kyrie when he caught his glance and gave him the thumbs up. Kyrie smiled back and knew this game was no longer about beating LeBron for him. This was about the Cavs.

The second quarter followed the path of the first, and the Cavaliers went into the locker down 51-50. The fans cheered them as they exited towards the locker room.

Byron Scott repeated his mantra of consistent play to the team, pleading with them to keep doing what they were doing. Everyone nodded. Kyrie stood up when he finished.

“Listen up for a second. You know how I’ve been saying this is just another game? I was lying. You know that, I know that.

A series of small nods went out around the room.

“We all know this game is important. Our fans have their reasons, and we have our reasons. But this game, this game tonight? It isn’t about LeBron. It shouldn’t be. He’s gone. This is the 2011 Cleveland Cavaliers, not the 2009 Cleveland Cavaliers. This team isn’t a museum. We’re more than that. This game is about us. That’s all it’s about. Yes, we need to win the game, but not to show LeBron. Not to vindicate anyone’s opinion. No, we need to win this game to show us, to show our fans, that the past is over. The future is in this arena tonight. It’s me, it’s you, and it’s them. It’s not for anything. It is something. We’ll make it ours.”

Teeth clenched involuntarily around the room. They agreed.

“Let’s go out there.”

The team clapped, rose up, and broke out of the locker room.

To say the team came out in the third quarter energized would be a gross understatement. “Deranged” or “insane” would be more fitting. At one point, Kyrie could have sworn he watched Anderson Varejao try to claw Mario Chalmers in an attempt to grab a loose ball.

And for a moment, the Cavs pulled ahead by 7. Of course, the Heat soon went on a predictable run and tied the game on a Joel Anthony semi-dunk, just before the end of the third quarter.  78-78. Kyrie had so far performed well, with 15 points and 8 assists. But not well enough. The fourth quarter would be his, and he knew it.

What happened next would become part of Cleveland sports’ lore. Just as Bird and Magic once had gone basket for basket, LeBron and Kyrie now squared off on a much seemingly smaller scale. Never had Kyrie seemed faster and more dynamic than in that 4^th quarter. The question was not whether he would finish at the basket, it was how. But LeBron was not so easily outplayed. And so he returned Kyrie’s offensive explosion, layup against layup, fadeaway against fadeaway. The crowd roared and cried with every Kyrie make and every LeBron return. Many would claim, months and years later, that the building shook that night. The Q had taken on a life of its own, on the shoulders of Irving. And he loved every second of it.

All of this pageantry left the ball in LeBron’s hands at the top of the key with 30 seconds remaining, the Heat down by 1. He resolutely stared down the defender before him, dribbling up and down, up and down. Suddenly, he darted past a straining Cassipi. Kyrie watched helplessly as LeBron flew into the lane, jumped, and dunked over a desperate Anderson Varejoa. The Q’s groan was palpable, as the ball dropped from the net onto the hardwood beneath. Irving turned to the ref, collected his bearings, and called the Cavs’ last 30-second timeout. 8 seconds left. More than enough time, he thought. Or just enough.

Kyrie bent over ever so slightly in the huddle. Coach Scott was drawing up a play hurriedly. Kyrie would feign left, drive right, and hit a hopefully open Casspi off of an elbow screen. Kyrie nodded. He was in control.

This was always his favorite moment. The grip of the ball as he moved down the court, the control that permeated through his being as his feet followed. It always just felt right. But tonight, the surroundings weren’t his. The ball didn’t belong him; it belonged to every screaming fan in the rejuvenated arena. This was their night. For him, it felt like the first night in a series of nights that would end with him exhausted and inexorably satisfied on a team plane, whether or not the play ultimately worked.

Kyrie had been in moments like this before, but he knew this would be different. As he moved onto the court, he once again made eye contact with the young fan. This time, Kyrie gave the thumbs up, and the young fan let out a nervous smile.

Kyrie caught the inbounds pass and glanced up at the clock one last time. 7.8 seconds left. His mind flashed. Kyrie quickly mapped out his path as he dribbled. He waited for a moment, and drove. The feign worked perfectly, as he evaded the double team momentarily and bolted into the lane, a defender close behind. Where was Casspi? He noticed him caught behind the screen as he glanced. But there was no time to wait. He skirted past Chalmers towards the open basket, nothing between him and a final lay-in.

That’s when he noticed a hard charging LeBron moving into his vision, just as Irving jumped towards the basket. Together they rose into the air, a portrait of basketball, past, present, and future. Cameras flashed as they rose together for the final time that night. LeBron’s hand rose into the air as he released that final floater. Kyrie watched as LeBron swatted. It appeared for a fragment of a second that LeBron would deflect the ball just enough to ensure another Heat victory. But he missed, by such a small margin it seemed impossible that he had missed at all. Kyrie only heard the bounce of the ball off the backboard as LeBron fell onto him, 260 pounds of muscle crushing his small frame.

But the crowd could see. And they cheered.

Kyrie knew he was home.

One man who has everything to do with CSKA’s early-season resurgence is power forward Andrei Kirilenko, who is Euroleague Basketball’s choice as bwin MVP for October. Kirilenko returned to CSKA this season after a decade abroad and has made sure nobody has forgotten about his talent or intensity. Kirilenko delivered right away with a monster performance in the Euroleague’s Opening Game in Kaunas by helping his team all over the court to earn Week 1 bwin MVP honors. Far from being satisfied, Kirilenko led CSKA to a convincing home win against Brose Baskets. The 30-year-old Kirilenko leads the 2011-12 Euroleague in performance index rating average (30), rebounding (9.5 rpg.) and blocks (2.5 bpg.) and is also tied for fifth place in assists (5.5 apg.). In other words, Andrei Kirilenko is the logical selection as bwin MVP for October!

via bwin MVP for October: Andrei Kirilenko, CSKA Moscow – Latest – Welcome to EUROLEAGUE BASKETBALL.

Oh, Andrei. Why must you tease us so? You beautiful, enigmatic bastard.

The notion of Andrei Kirilenko being the best player over a monthly Euroleague span is nothing out the ordinary. Of the NBA players to make a trans-atlantic leap while their brethren fight over BRI points, only former teammate Deron Williams is a clear cut better player than AK47, and Williams’ team didn’t even make Euroleague qualifiers, let alone the actual tourney. By name alone, Kirilenko is probably the best player working his way through the continent (depending on how you feel about Nicolas Batum or Danilo Gallinari), and a first month MVP for the 30 year old Russian more than makes sense.

However, the leap from “former all-star, former all-NBA defender, current solid rotation player” Andrei to “best player in the continent” Kirilenko is one that requires more than just an understanding of the different competition these two versions face. It requires an understanding of Kirilenko himself, an understanding which is incomplete at best by its very nature. The nuances between the NBA and European basketball and how these nuances relate to Kirilenko’s game are things that we can analyze; the effect of Kirilenko’s mental make-up, though, is a pointless exercise in armchair psychology, even though it is probably even more descriptive.

Kirilenko has long been a frustrating case of a mind that just can’t keep with the frenetic pace set by a unique combination of physique and talent. His lean build masks his athleticism well, but accentuates his length, and enables him to deftly maneuver between the gigantic men that share basketball courts with him. Between the speed, the quickness, the surprising vertical outbursts that stand in sharp contrast to his appearance, the entire basketball court is often just a single step away from Andrei’s long reach. In his purest form, Kirilenko was created with omnipresence in mind.

Somehow, in the NBA, this raw tendency has always been obstructed. It may be Carlos Boozer pushing him out of the power forward position, but I don’t buy it. Placing Kirilenko in any semblance of a “natural” position is severe miscasting, as Kirilenko is in every way the positional revolution incarnate. Clearly, he isn’t a guard, and isn’t a center, but he isn’t really a forward either – he’s an everything, just tall enough to fit between the 2 and the 4, which inevitably ends up being listed as a 3. If anything, the disservice to Andrei is not that the prefix to his “forward” listing is the word “small” instead of “power”, but that he’s been cast as anything at all.

Of course, when complaining about positional discrimination, it’s important to note just where Andrei has been playing throughout his NBA tenor. Under Jerry Sloan’s flex offense, Kirilenko wasn’t exactly being shipped out to the corners, being forced to do nothing but spot up. The entire flex premise is designed around movement and 5 players remaining involved at all times. Which only makes Kirilenko’s failure to realize his full potential that much more disappointing.

Whatever these shackles are, they seem to be lifted the second Kirilenko gets off the plane on European soil. From his 2007 MVP trophy on a Eurobasket winning Russian squad, to his blistering start of 2011-2012 on CSKA Moscow, EuroAndrei is the Andrei we envision in our minds. Be it stage fright, homesickness, or just plain coincidence, it’s a comfort zone that can’t be replicated when trudging in the brighter lights of NBA arenas.

Nowhere was this more prevalent then in the 2011 Eurobasket, which saw Russia win bronze. It’s easy to attribute Russia’s success to a friendly draw, to having one of the top basketball minds in Europe in David Blatt, or just to more natural talent than most other squads, with two NBA players (remember, children, Timofey Mozgov is good in Europe) and several top Euroleague contributors.

But more than anything, the Russian team was built in Kirilenko’s  image – long, athletic, capable of everything in multiple positions. Russia’s starting line-up had three forwards (Kirilenko, Victor Khryapa, and Sergey Monya) ranging from 6’8″ to 6’10″, all capable of both scoring and defending in and out, and a 4^th, Andrey Vorontsevich, who is less perimeter oriented but who is just as athletic; Khryapa, in particular, is memorable around these parts mostly for flaming out in Portland, was second in the entire tourney in assists. Alexey Shved is a bumbling package of everythingness coming off the bench who would either be in the NBA or on his way if he weren’t so damn inconsistent. Mozgov really does have skills on offense – these don’t translate to the NBA because they manifest so slowly, but they are there.

And all these cogs work together in unison, whether be it on a perfectly executed ball reversal towards yet another 3 pointer by Vitaly Fridzon, or be it a halfcourt trap that an opposing point guard just has no chance of getting away from without turning the ball over. It’s Kirilenko at his finest – too long, too fast, too everywhere, with the original, ultimate Andrei lording over his smaller, lesser clones.

Perhaps this is the reason why Kirilenko never truly worked in the NBA. Perhaps the unique blend of skills that he possesses just isn’t enough to mask the fact that ultimately, on aggregate, he just isn’t good enough. Kirilenko could never lord over his Jazz teammates the way he does in Russia, because there was always a player or two that was just better than him. Maybe it’s no coincidence that Kirilenko’s best seasons – from his 03 breakout campaign, to his 04 all-star appearance, and his three all-defense selections in 04, 05 (second team), and 06 (first team) – were in the transition period between the Jazz of Stockton and Malone to those of Deron Williams and Carlos Boozer, a period in which Kirilenko was the team’s best player and the Jazz won squat. Maybe Kirilenko just needs to be “the guy”, a position that would never be possible on an NBA team with actual aspirations.

Or perhaps, it really is an issue of the mind. Maybe those insane numbers from an injury plagued 2004-2005 season – 24.4 PER, 60% true shooting, and a ridiculous 8.5 block percentage, in what was sadly just a 41 game campaign – and the infamous 5X5s are what Andrei really is, and he could just never really be that guy for a long stretch. Perhaps, despite his wife’s well publicized rules to make road travel easier, are all Andrei needs is to be at home so he can be himself. Sadly, these are things that we’ll never know.

Photo by Robb North on Flickr

NBPA executive director Billy Hunter sent out a letter to players updating them on the turbulent CBA negotiations with owners. The letter was obtained by several media outlets. I hope the same will occur with my letter, which I’m confidentially posting here.

TO: ALL PLAYERS

FROM: CONNOR HUCHTON

DATE: November 03, 2011

RE: COLLECTIVE BARGAINING AGREEMENT (NOVEMBER 3, 2011)

First, let me get any rumors out of the way: I’m not negotiating with any owners behind your back. I thought Robert Sarver called me the other day, but it turned out to just be a prank call from Robin Lopez. I have nothing but good intentions. Now that you trust me implicitly, let’s talk about the real issues. I’ve compiled them as follows.

Stop having secret meetings. 

I heard about how 50 or so of you held a secret meeting with an antitrust lawyer about the possibility of decertification. Not cool, you guys. We talked about this. We agreed we wouldn’t decertify and we agreed we’d all get lower back tattoos. Turns out I was fooled on both counts. Now I have a giraffe on my lower back and a seriously wounded sense of pride.

Implement a new tactic of negotiation.

Let’s face it. Our pleas to the owners just aren’t getting through. We’ve offered them more BRI, we’ve compromised on system issues, and we’ve even promised to buy them each one free weekend at the failing Trump casino of their choice. But they won’t listen. Some of you have suggested the “Talk to the Hand” method, but that would only serve as an intimidating choice if Kawhi Leonard did it. No, we need to focus on the oldest negotiating tactic in the world: reverse psychology. The small-market, hardline owners need to be tricked into reasonableness.

How will we do this? It’s simple. We just say things like this:

“BRI? No, I’m good. You just take all of it. This is like golf for me. The lower the percentage, the better.”

“No guaranteed contracts? Sounds swell.”

“You know, if it was up to me, we wouldn’t even have contracts!”

“I was talking to my friend Dan Gilbert the other day, and he made some really good points.”

“Do you know what I really want? This may sound controversial, but I really hope we have more lockouts.”

If the owners aren’t tricked, we’ll just quickly revert back to our original position. They’ll empathize with that.

Out-ultimatum them.

The owners seem to love ultimatums. So how do we negotiate with them? We beat them at their own game. They’re going to refuse to budge at 50% of BRI? Let’s counter that in manageable ways. When we’re negotiating and break for lunch, we’ll stare the owners in the eyes and say, “The cookies are ours. The game is up.” If there’s a rectangular table in the negotiating room, we’ll demand a circular table, and vice versa. It’s time to get serious.

Confuse them.

Sincerity and coherence aren’t working. That much is clear. So let’s come straight out of left field with bizarre demands they would never expect, like these:

• Free soup at every game, no exceptions. And no broccoli cheddar.
• “Sweet Caroline” will be sung in the middle of every seventh inning of every NBA game. Oh, there isn’t a 7th inning in basketball? MAKE ONE.
• Make sure Rashard Lewis gets another extension.
• Makes sure Gilbert Arenas gets two more extensions.
• Each team gets two mascots that combine to form the team’s original mascot (example: Thunder = Lightning Mascot + Cloud Mascot).
• Steve Blake will be officially banned from the Lakers for life (this was requested in a mysterious email from FisherOfTheSea@aol.com).

Photo from Scott_Calleja via Flickr

Despite the star of last week’s NBA Outsourcing, Craig Brackins, resting with his Maccabi Ashdod teammates during their week off (the odd result of an 11 team league), there was plenty of action in Israeli basketball this week.

Hapoel Jerusalem lost their second straight game, 95-93 at home to Ironi Ashkelon, in a game that wasn’t nearly as close as the score indicates. Ashkelon was carried early on by the hot shooting of ex-Hapoel guard Amit Simhon (14, all in the first half) to go up 9 at half time, and the rest of the second half was conducted in the 7 to 12 range for most of the game, but a furious rally in the last 4 minutes gave them a shot at the W. Alas, veteran forward and notorious sharpshooter Moshe Mizrahi missed an off balance 3 with the buzzer.

I’m sorry, did I say furious rally? I meant comedy of errors. Ashkelon did everything in their power to give the game away in the final stretch – from an unforced out-of-bounds, to D.J. Strawberry drawing a charge from Raviv Limonad with the ball yet to enter play, to a 3 on 0 fast break that was blown by a travel, to Marco Killingsworth – who completely and utterly abused Jarvis Varnado in the post with his bulk and his quickness en route to 16 points – fouling out. Hapoel replied with some utterly insane 3 pointers by mercurial guard Yuval Naimi, including one to cut the lead to 94-93 with 18 seconds left that had such an arc that it scraped the rafters, but was left one bullet too short.

Prior to the final stretch, Jerusalem continued their campaign for exclusive rights over isolations, with coach Oded Katash seemingly refusing to call any offensive play, sans the occasional feeble high screen. Jerusalem looked like an absolute mess, and their offense from breaking down only by random flashes of individual brilliance from Strawberry (who continues to be both unstoppable going to the rim and a far better jump shooter than he was in his NBA days, going for 24-5-5 and drawing 9 fouls), Naimi (non-existent in the first half, on fire in the second, 20 points and 11 shots overall), and – at long last – Boston Celtics guard Avery Bradley.

I won’t lie to you – Bradley wasn’t perfect. His outside shot was way off, shooting only 2 for 6 from three (and while I don’t have the stats to back it up, he was probably even worse on long twos), with 2 of those misses not even connecting with the rim. Bradley also displayed too much of a tendency to go one on one – though again, I blame coaching for that more than poor Avery, since the entire team was predicated on nothing but boneheaded selfishness.

However, Bradley was a force going to the rim, finishing in traffic again and again en route to 21 points, including some of the games best highlights – a beautiful, if clumsy, 2 on 1 fast break with Strawberry that ended in a dunk and a foul, and an alley-oop of a half court pass from Naimi.

Bradley was also solid defensively, putting pressure on ball handlers and even recording a sick block, though he seemed quite incapable of understanding how backdoor cuts work, getting beat quite a bit off the ball. All in all, a solid showing from Bradley, who is even more athletic than I remembered.

However, it seems like Bradley’s tenure in Jerusalem is coming to an end despite his improved second game. Bradley originally signed a contract for only 2 months, and will reportedly exercise his option to return stateside after Monday’s game against Barak Netanya. Though I am very sad about this turn of events, Hapoel probably won’t hurt too much, as Strawberry has a very strong hold over the shooting guard spot and Bradley isn’t really a natural point.

Back to the game, Dwayne Mitchell had 18 points, 12 boards and 6 assists for the winners in an impressive display all-around display of strength and smarts for Ashkelon, who also got 16 from former Spartan Raymar Morgan. Luke Jackson had 0 points and 5 fouls in 19 minutes and is absolutely awful.

My Dad has started calling Luke Jackson "Fluke Jackson" on a full time basis. Yeah, he's not working out for Hapoel.

October 31, 2011 5:52 am via TweetDeckReplyRetweetFavorite

@noamschiller

Noam Schiller

Elsewhere, Sacramento forward (or is it still Cleveland forward? Did the lockout freeze time or not?) J.J. Hickson had his Israeli League debut for Bnei HaSharon/Herzelia against Hapoel Holon, and did so in classic J.J. Hickson fashion. As expected, Hickson was far too athletic to be stopped offensively, as he powered his way towards 20 points on 8 of 12 shooting, 8 rebounds, and 5 assists that should come as quite a surprise to astute NBA watchers. Of course, this is J.J. Hickson we’re talking about, so these stats came in an astonishing 39 point loss.

It’s hard to articulate just how bad Bnei HaSharon were defensively, and Hickson was a huge part of the downfall. The team gave up 62 points in the first half, and were down 98-60 after three quarters – and this is a 40 minute game. Hickson, on his part, was dominated down low by Bryant Dunston (29 and 14), and seemed completely clueless as to guarding the pick and roll. In a certain notable 3^rd quarter stretch, two consecutive Holon pick and rolls ended in two consecutive dunks by Hickson’s man, the second of which seeing Hickson standing helplessly at the upper left elbow. For more Hickson, check out what I hope becomes a weekly feature over at Cowbell Kingdom.

Dunston was hardly the only Holon player to dominate offensively. Ron Lewis was incapable of missing jumpers (27, 5 of 6 from long range), and Patrick Stewart and Tasmin Mitchell threw in 19 and 18, respectively. But the mastermind behind the show was point guard Moran Roth, who recorded a career high 15 assists to go with his 12 points.

Maccabi Haifa finally got their first win of the season, handily beating Hapoel Gilboa/Galil 90-77 behind a dominant 32 points from Sylven Landesberg. I only caught the final few seconds of this match, as I was in the midst of returning home from a very distraught Malcha (Jerusalem’s home arena), but it seems Sean Williams finally had his A game on as well, playing an incredible 36 minutes without fouling out, and posting an impressive statline of 21 points (on 10 shots, though for some reason he attempted two threes), 7 boards, 2 assists, 3 steals and 5 blocks. Carlos Powell scored 20 of his own, Courtney Fells was pretty much left on an island for the losing squad with 22.

Finally, Jordan Farmar had another inconsistent week. In Saturday’s 78-67 win over Partizan Belgrade, the second such win in 3 days over Nikola Pekovic (23 points) and co., Farmar had a solid game, scoring 14 points on 8 shots and puppeteering the offense with 7 assists. Farmar proceeded to have an awful game in a too-close-for-comfort 87-85 squeaker over Barak Netanya, scoring only 6 points on 1-5 shooting (as well as 3-8 from the line) and fouling out in 24 minutes. Luckily for Jordan, 20 points apiece from Sofoklis Schortsanitis and Guy Pnini was enough for Maccabi to overcome an excellent game from Christian Burns.

All was forgiven, though, as Farmar produced at the highest possible level against a stacked Real Madrid squad, in a game that ended just minutes ago. Farmar was aggressive from the get go, getting to the rim for layups 3 times in the first 150 seconds of the game, which set the tone early for a 88-82 victury that felt more like an onslaught. Real stayed close thanks to some hot 3 point shooting, mostly from former Utah State guard Jaycee Carroll (4 of 5 from 3, 18 points), but the Spanish offense seemed out of sync all game, as Rudy Fernandez (13 points, 4-12 shooting) led what seemed like a team effort of taking hard shots over working for good ones.

Serge Ibaka, in his Real debut, was mostly frozen out of the offense, getting his 9 points off free throws and offensive rebounds between off ball screens. Former Warriors draft pick Richard Hendrix did a good job of frustrating Ibaka when he did get involved, as the OKC forward let quite a few loose balls slip between his fingers, and Sofo (16 points in 21 minutes) gave him a handful on defense as well.

But above all stood Farmar. Getting to the rim again and again, the Nets guard seemingly refused to accept a result that wasn’t a made basket or a drawn foul, often going for both. Farmar finished with 27 points on 10-12 shooting, drew 8 fouls, and threw in 4 boards, 5 assists, and the game clinching steal, up 5 points with 25 seconds left. A magnificent all around performance, by far his best since his defection to Europe.

Jerry West dreamt of living in Africa as a child. He dreamt of co-existing with the animals that he’s had a lifelong fascination with, and “experiencing their incredible will to survive.” Africa would’ve been the perfect locale for a survivor, for a tortured child who would have felt more at peace with animals thousands of miles away than he ever did in his broken home.

West By West: My Charmed, Tormented Life insists itself as a memoir, not an autobiography. There is a prevailing notion that sports autobiographies unabashedly laud career achievements and gloss over the details that truly make a person worth knowing. ‘West By West’ is not that book. Key moments in West’s life – those worthy of celebration and those unbearably grim – are told with the knowledge that his battles with depression, grief, and rage are never too far behind. What emerges is the story of a man broken at childhood by an abusive father and his brother’s untimely death, whose scars would follow him into success, turning triumph into the same crippling sadness that occupied his youth.

It’s impossible to ignore the murderous rage West had bottled up in his adolescence. He takes the time to think of a life in which he had carried out his most abhorrent thoughts. No college. No NBA. No Olympics.  Everything we’d come to know of him, every success he’d come to know himself, wouldn’t have been possible. The contempt he had for his father is palpable. West is a man who exists as a collage of varying contradictions, and it’s scary to think that the same murderous rage that could have derailed his success is the same force that instilled his drive – to win, to be perfect, to attain his father’s love and attention.

This has been incredibly bleak thus far, and yes, the book is absolutely this depressing. Ironically, the way in which the title was printed on the cover (specifically the size of each word) runs inversely to the gravity that each word holds in the book. West’s ‘tormented life’ receives the least emphasis on the cover even though Torment wrestles for control of the memoir, establishing itself as the third writer. West, printed big and bold, undermines how shy, withdrawn, and just how uncomfortable he seems writing solely about himself.

What’s left is Charmed, a fitting word that highlights West’s delightfully odd sense of humor, and anecdotes that were too good to be left out.  Despite the book’s omnipresent gloom, there are still rays of light.

Some odd notables:

• West was a churchgoer as a kid, but instead of finding peace with God, he found church bingo — another excuse to fire up his competitive spirit, and obsession with doing things (and in this case, shouting things) quickly.
• West finds himself “wondering who would win in a fight between a coyote and a pit bull,” a silly thought that didn’t come from his childhood, but in sitting down to write his memoir.
• West and legendary Lakers announcer Chick Hearn were escape artists. They would stage competitions to see who could inconspicuously leave team functions.
• In an Italian restaurant, West questioned a diner sitting next to him about her choice of beverage. She was drinking beer (instead of red wine) with her pasta, which he found preposterous. So he paid for her meal.

The book meanders (sometimes annoyingly so), and it may take a few pages for West to find the point he was trying to make, but it speaks to the uneasiness that West has in discussing himself for too long. West’s deviations often involve people dear to him, often telling their stories or stories that have far more to do with them than himself. He loves people; far more than he loves himself – something the book makes all too clear early on.

Just as pervasive as the gloom is West’s (more welcomed) imagination. Through his imagination, readers get a glimpse of his humble basketball beginnings, where “clutch” was first constructed. Practicing alone, West would concoct scenarios with imaginary teams and real stakes. Imaginary buzzer beaters would swish or clank. His imaginary team would win or would lose (though he’d make sure he’d win the next one). Mr. Clutch was born in the deep country landscape of West Virginia, where West not only discovered his unconquerable addiction to basketball, but also the beauty of the land in which he was raised.

In his own mind, he found relief from the pressing realities that made him morose. In this life or another, Jerry West is an animal roaming his domain, fully exercising his innate instinct of survival – away from the hurt he endured as a child. He is Santa Claus, blessing others with random acts of generosity – showing his love and appreciation for others, something he admittedly struggles with at times. He’s a mind submerged in wanderlust – furiously going from one place to another both in life and in thought. At once, he can dream of Africa, and in the same instant, construct the perfect game between the best basketball players in history (including himself, of course).

He is one of the greatest basketball players in history. He is the Logo (the image they use is something he scoffs at; he is dribbling with his left hand, something West claims was a weakness). His most memorable shot was a 60+ foot buzzer-beater against the New York Knicks in Game 3 of the 1970 Finals (which he resents, since his Lakers eventually lost in overtime). His list of success goes on and on, but he remains fixated on his failures to this day.

“I know that incarcerated is a strong word, but that is how I felt; it is also how I felt in the locker room before a game, like a caged animal that needed to break out, and it is why I still, today, look to escape from places and keep moving, a man on the run.” (20).

It’s a depressing book. Of that, I’m sure. It’s full of wonderful anecdotes both from his time as a player, a GM, and a father – some of which will require rereading. It’s dense, and there are a lot of emotions that are laid out plain to see. Through interviews that co-writer Jonathan Coleman conducted with those closest to him, it’s evident that West is a beloved figure, though you’d have to dig through all of West’s self-loathing to get to that point.

If there is any hope, any peace in this book, it’s because he says there is. If you’re skeptical by the end of the book, I don’t blame you. I’m not so sure Jerry West believes it either.

You can buy the book on Amazon.com

Photo from Bay View Compass via Flickr

Gastroenteritis (stomach inflammation) is a terrible, terrible thing. I know a thing or two about it. Diarrhea, vomiting, and abdominal cramps are common enough symptoms in everyday illnesses and prescription medication. Common enough for us to dismiss the trio of discomforts as something more or less unavoidable nuisances. But gastroenteritis is more than just a one-time deal. Gastroenteritis has you trapped in your bathroom chamber, afraid to leave. So you sit down or kneel over, just waiting for it all to be purged. But illnesses hardly ever comply with your schedule. And whether you’re sick for a day, two days, or two weeks is left to the virus. It saps your energy, your time, and your ability to function outside a 10-foot radius of a restroom.

I’m sure players like Dwight Howard know this well. In a recent report published by Clinical Infectious Diseases (CID), 13 NBA teams had players and staff members suffering from gastroenteritis in December 2010. The report makes sense of a rather mysterious bug that ravaged the Orlando Magic roster early last season, forcing Howard and other players to sit out of a back-to-back on Dec. 3-4 due to “stomach illness.” The culprit? Noroviruses.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the norovirus is defined as “a highly contagious illness caused by infection with a virus called norovirus. It is often called by other names, such as viral gastroenteritis, stomach flu, and food poisoning.” Noroviruses can be spread through contaminated food and drink, as well as objects that have also been contaminated. Clearly the object in mind for this specific outbreak is a basketball. But considering how much time a team can spend together in enclosed locations, the virus could have been spread at any point.

More from the report:

The 13 NBA teams with cases played a total of 49 games against one another during the study period. Two of these games were identified as potential team-to-team transmission events. In these events, both donor teams (teams D and F) had cases with laboratory-confirmed norovirus infection. All 4 NBA staff members and players on the 2 recipient teams (teams E and G) that developed gastroenteritis within 72 hours after the game reported no similar illness in their households during the week before their illness onset (Figure 1; online only)

via Transmission of Norovirus Among NBA Players and Staff, Winter 2010–2011 | CID

CID’s research also notes that a 10-year analysis of NBA injury reports has shown that “gastrointestinal illness represented the second most common non-game-related injury or illness among players.”

Of course, playing through illness and injury is a mark of toughness and resilience, something to be admired. But playing through norovirus-induced gastroenteritis has enormous consequences that affect more than just the suffering individual. When games eventually start, players will surely storm courts with fervor. With so many games lost already, it’s understandable for players to want to make up for lost time. But, as seen by the depleted Magic roster last December, when you’re sick, you’re sick. There’s no use toughing it out if you’re only going to take your teammates out with you.

So, yeah. Wash your hands obsessively. Or else start purchasing books you’ve always wanted to read. You’ll need all of them when the norovirus strikes you.

Author Illustration

From the Magrathean Archives:

Fook: “Oh, Deep Thought. We want you to tell us the answer.”

Deep Thought: “The answer to what?”

Lunkwill: “The answer to…everything. We’d really like an answer. Something simple.”

Deep Thought: “Hmm, have to think about that… Return to this place in exactly seven-and-a-half million years.”

HoopSpeak’s Ethan Sherwood Strauss asks, does point guard defense matter? It might surprise you to find Deron Williams isn’t a very good defender by this measure, though not so much if you’re a Utah Jazz fan. With a relative lack of definitive defensive stats to draw upon, the eyeball is largely relied on to make a conscious determination on the matter. Point guards of significant stature, intensity, and athleticism, like Williams,  can easily play tricks with your mind’s eye, fooling you into believing they’re making an impact on the defensive end of the floor.

Similarly, small, quick gamblers like Chris Paul and Russell Westbrook can present a mirage when examined solely through the myopic-scope of standard statistical analysis, such as posting impressive steals numbers. While Ethan’s opinion may simply be tainted by being forced to cover one Monta Ellis –who picks pockets more often than Manu flops even as not a rational soul in the basketball world would ever claim he resembles anything approaching a good defender– we do have a few other resources to draw upon in attempting to compose a more complete picture. (If you didn’t click on the TrueHoop link at the top of this paragraph, please do so now.)

Ford Prefect: “Is it finished?”

Zaphod Bebblebrox: “No, no, no, there’s more, there’s more. They go back.”

Arthur Dent: “What, seven-and-a-half million years later?!”

Zaphod Bebblebrox: “That’s right. They do.” [presses play]

Fook: “Deep Thought, do you have…”

Deep Thought: “…an answer for you? Yes. But you’re not gonna like it.”

Fook: “It doesn’t matter, we must know it.”

Deep Thought: “Alright, the answer…is…”

“Only when you know the question will you know what the answer means,” and I’m not convinced we’ve asked the right question in this case. But lucky for you, you won’t have to wait around for 10 million years to find out.

Who leaps to mind in today’s NBA when you think “defensive point guards?” We’ve already ruled out Chris Paul and Deron Williams (by any measure outside of an iso post-up situation, just trust me on this –you won’t find anything to support otherwise), so we’re left with whom? Certainly Jason Kidd and Rajon Rondo. Maybe Andre Miller and Kirk Hinrich. I’d add anything-Philadelphia, but that’s about it.

The proper question might not be does point guard defense matter, but rather, is point guard defense being played? Because if it’s not, by and large, then it’s difficult to make a case that it does, indeed, matter.

It wasn’t always the way of today with PG D, and it’s only due partially to the “no-hands” era (which I examined more closely here). Offense is sexy. Defense is dirty work no one wants to do anymore. In an effort to understand how we got here I charted the last 25 years of O/D-rating and Points-Per-Game and set it to a timeline of points-past that were well known for their defensive prowess.

Note and disclaimer: Offensive and Defensive ratings are per BasketballReference.com, and are an accurate measure of points scored and allowed. As every action has an opposite and equal reaction, league-wide O and D-Rtgs will always be equal in the summary

I realize that big men have a much larger impact on defense than the little guys, but I believe perimeter players, specifically point guards,  give in far too easily today, playing more with their hands than feet

We used to regularly see point guards on the NBA’s All-Defensive 1st Team –Dennis Johnson and/or Mo Cheeks were there for nine straight years– as well as multiple PGs on it (count ‘em, four times, past) and even the lone Defensive Player of the Year-as-a-point, The Glove, but no more. In the last nine years we’ve had four total appearances, one of which was the aforementioned Chris Paul, and two accounted for by Rondo.

On HoopSpeakLive Ethan notes (4:38 mark), “For all the talk of Rajon Rondo and his defense I don’t think point guard defense matters that much. It does have an impact, but it’s the least important of all the positions [defensively]…it’s not clear he’s having a huge impact.”

Certainly point guard defense matters. Your point is not only your your first line of defense, he’s also supposed to be controlling the game, and not just on the offensive end of things. A point should be doing everything he can to dictate where the opposition goes with the ball, thereby increasing his team’s chance to get a stop.

Most of today’s point guards will all-too-easily take a half-hearted swipe as the ball goes by, leaving their big men exposed in the paint to try and mop up after ‘em, which is just about the worst-case scenario for these guys considering the athleticism and ability of players nowadays, as Ethan notes. Once the ball gets in the paint, the vast majority of the time it will end in points.

If you checked the “no-hands era” link above you noticed that there are more guards on the NBA’s .500 field goal percentage list these days –indeed, three of em made it this year and Steve Nash was right there til the end.  Among point guards, Tony Parker led all in FG% last season, and two other poor 3-point shooters, Rajon Rondo and Andre Miller also find themselves in the top ten of PF FG%. Why? Because point guards don’t defend each other worth a damn, instead relying on help D to bail ‘em out.

Free throw attempts leaders in 2010-11 by position shake out thus: PGs 11, SGs 7, SFs 7, PFs 11, Cs 4. Point guards have found that if the pick-and-roll with their power forward isn’t there they can easily drive the paint now where one of three things generally happens: 1) They score 2) They find an open ‘mate when defenses are forced to collapse to help, or 3) They end up at the line.

According to HoopData stats last season, of the 14 point guard FG% leaders 63% of shots were made “at the rim,” compared to 41% for everything from 3-23 feet. Of the ten leading point guard free throw attempt’ers, 59% of shots were either at the rim or from 16 feet out to beyond the 3-line, compared to just 12% from 3′-9′ and a paltry 9% from 10′-15′ out. If PGs aren’t driving the paint they’re likely popping 3s or near-3s. Chicks dig scars, and chicks dig the long ball, right? Anything in between is no-real-man’s land.

The 3-ball is more prominent now than ever before in the NBA, and high-usage point guards are fond of trying to ring in from range. The 14 best FG-shooting points average out to make about one in three tries, 34%, last season, while 3s comprise about one in every four of their FGAs. An interesting thing happened when I charted in the 3-point percentage to the above graph.

We might expect that 3s would more closely follow along with PPG, while instead we find that over the last 20-plus years it instead appears more closely tied to D-ratings. It took less than a decade –the 3 was first adopted by the NBA in the 1979-80 season– for the 3-ball to integrate itself as a permanent weapon in the arsenals of offensive players and it’s effects have been attached to defenses ever since.

As the perimeter is the domain of point guards first and foremost, as heads egos butt initially from here on in to the paint, on the majority of possessions in most systems, defensively and offensively, this is an area of the game their impact should be felt. Yet we’re experiencing a high,  sustained rate of made 3-pointers. Granted, not all of them come from point guards, but PGs all too often readily let a man fly and hope for the best, waiting with extended hands for a chance to answer at the other end rather than make an attempt to quell a momentum-swinging play in the first place.

Back in the day, one of the most tenacious and annoying defenders in the league, John Stockton, would reportedly terrorize his opponent early in every game by “accidentally” driving his knee as hard as he could into his opposition’s thigh, thereby setting a tone of toughness that seems to be lacking in these “entitled” times of little-to-no real defense. A cursory search of PGs then and now readily shows a separation of several feet on the D end of things for most perimeter players.

Perimeter point guard defense has seemingly said, “So long, and thanks for all the fish.”

_____

More pieces to the puzzle

Defensive Pace Factor, helping explain why Chris Paul gets so many steals; he gets more chances

Sebastian Pruiti’s recent look at How Top Point Guards Are Defended

Zach and Ethan touch on system on HoopSpeakLive. Deron Williams and Devin Harris show it in their numbers before/after 2011 trade

Baron Davis plays weird defense, or at least he used to (Video)

Photo by @TheWagofMutombo

A shepherd-boy, who watched a flock of sheep near a village, brought out the villagers three or four times by crying out, “Wolf! Wolf!” and when his neighbors came to help him, laughed at them for their pains.

The Wolf, however, did truly come at last. The Shepherd-boy, now really alarmed, shouted in an agony of terror: “Pray, do come and help me; the Wolf is killing the sheep”; but no one paid any heed to his cries, nor rendered any assistance. The Wolf, having no cause of fear, at his leisure lacerated or destroyed the whole flock.

via Short Stories: The Boy Who Cried Wolf by Aesop.

The extended NBA offseason has been littered with little morsels that hardly qualify as news, scavenged by those of us twisted enough to seek sustenance during lockout limbo. Among those slim pickings, Allen Iverson stands as a shining beacon of consistency. At least twice so far, Iverson offered up a familiar refrain; he is ready to play basketball in the NBA – for anyone – and he is willing to be a team player and do what is necessary in order to fit into a team’s structure. His most recent proclamation predictably came just days before an event featuring the Answer* is scheduled for November 12-13 in Las Vegas.

*Featuring might be a bit strong. Kevin Durant, Amar’e Stoudemire and Andre Igoudala, among others, are expected to participate.

The man who blazed a trail for Deron Williams by briefly signing with Besiktas in Turkey*even said that coming off the bench “makes it easier for him.” Iverson’s history says otherwise, unfortunately. Two of his last three stints in the NBA ended poorly, as he was unable to accept a limited role with the Pistons and Grizzlies, playing only three games with Memphis in his last action in the league. The only positive signing for Iverson recently was his contract with the Sixers. Due to personal issues, he quickly left the team; at least his last official uniform in the league was the one in which he performed so splendidly for so many years.

*Insomuch as they’re both point guards who signed contracts with said team, and Iverson’s came first chronologically. Other than that, their tenures have little in common, excepting Williams’s reported complaints which seemed to quiet when his play picked up.

That’s all emotional bunk, though; Iverson would gladly retire in any of the other 29 jerseys if it meant another chance to get on the floor in an NBA game. He is at his most candid when he says that he simply wants to play – words we’ve read countless times this offseason, that seemed so hollow when deployed as a PR campaign, that coming from Iverson sound sincere and revealing. Surely he wants to play above else; it’s why so many of his last, flailing attempts in the league ended poorly. He couldn’t accept not playing when he knew – even if no one else did – that he could help his team and make them better. He had his demons off the court, mental blocks that he says prevented him from concentrating as fully on the game at hand as he needs to in order to be Allen Iverson. He claims those obstacles are gone now. He’s ready to play.

The easy conclusion is that Iverson is crying wolf and doesn’t know when to stop for his own good. There’s something that always struck me as odd about that particular fable, however. While I assume that little children back in Aesop’s time were much hardier than I could ever hope to be at any point in my life, it seems that even a self-made prepubescent like the little bugger in The Boy Who Cried Wolf should have received some sort of intervention after the first or second time that he decided to pretend that a vicious apex carnivore was threatening his livelihood and his life. Maybe at that point the townsfolk who rushed to his help once or twice should have looked at each other and said, “You know what? How about we give the job that demands responsibility to someone who isn’t going to set the archetype for Bart Simpson?” When do the people who are at the apex of responsibility supposed to step in and actually be responsible? Doesn’t delegation depend on dependable people?

As much as I want to blame Iverson, this is his nature. He could be telling the truth, and his past may prevent all of us from ever knowing what he has left and what role he could play. In the off chance that he does get back into the league and is the Iverson of old – for the worse, not the better – I’ll have to wonder how many times the village elders who hired him have cried wolf themselves.

Photo by Lewis and Clark Community College via flickr

Tucson, Arizona is a fitting place to spend the first day of lost NBA regular season games. November 1st is a day of celebration in many of the cultures that come to a crossroads here, a city that supports its basketball first and foremost (the Wildcat football season isn’t actually happening, we keep telling ourselves)  fweaves a college community among vibrant Catholic and Mexican traditions – among many other religious and ethnic groups.

Today’s celebrations are as coupled as those populations themselves. Catholics celebrate today as All Saints’ Day – a thousand-year old holiday. It is also the first day of the Dia de los Muertos celebration, a combination of millenia-long indigenous rituals, centuries-old Aztec festivals and the relatively more recent integration of Roman Catholic faith and traditions in Mexico. In a much less meaningful way, it is the Day of the Dead in the NBA as well. Though the news came down weeks ago, we are now officially in Day 1 of meaningful* loss. Athletes often remind us that their most important awards – MVPs, championships – can’t be taken away from them. They will have them in the flesh until the day they pass and in the annals and on our tongues when they transition from legend to myth. It’s a touching thought. The cold downside is that these games, contrarily, can never be taken back. Not by the players or by the owners, and certainly not by the fans.

*This is my obligatory disclaimer that it’s “meaningful in the sports sense” so that only half the people reading this yell at me for being insensitive, instead of 90% of them.

It’s a dour note. And as I watch people in their skull face paint make their way downtown for a night of music and revelry, singing and dancing more than talking and walking as they go, I’m reminded that the Day of the Dead is, first and foremost, a celebration. People remember their lost loved ones not by mourning them, but by writing satirical little poems pointing out funny, quirky behaviors and attributes of those who have gone before them.

Likewise, in our best moments, should we treat the NBA lockout. Don’t get me wrong. As a great philosopher said, “this s— sucks.” I want my basketball, and I want it now. That’s not going to affect anything other than my view of the sport I love and the world around me, though, so why mourn? If entire cultures can embrace a day of loss and turn it into giant parties, so should we be willing to treat this unfortunate pause in play. Many have, celebrating the future, the present and the past of the profession we all adore. Try to follow their lead, especially when things are the bleakest. Don’t let the skirmish between the players and the owners dampen your affinity for the game. There will be times of anger, of course, especially when people say stupid things about purses. Laugh at those people.* Basketball will be back sooner than later. The more positive we can be while we wait, the more bearable the lull will be, methinks.

This is the 21st year of Dia de los Muertos celebrations in Tucson. It is a tradition that has seen two NBA lockouts so far. It will likely see more. The rituals, the remembrance and the fun are as much a part of this city as the disagreement between owners and labor over millions of dollars is ingrained into the business of basketball.

It is our Day of the Dead, regardless of beliefs. In that spirit, let’s  make the pain go away.