If you know anything about professional wrestling, you’d acknowledged that a full six year chronicling of one of the more profane, revered WWF Golden Era stars most remembered for breaking Hulk Hogan’s back in 1984 for the Heavy Weight Championship at Madison Square Garden is the best thing since DW Griffith’s Birth of a Nation. Hopefully, the Magen brothers go into some detail as to why Sheik hoped Kanye’s first born would be named Cheeseburger, his characterizing Chris Bosh as “Raisin Balls” on a near every day basis, early career Pontiac Michigan feuds with Brian Blair and the time he and Hackshaw Jim Dugan were pulled over with three ounces of Heroin only to later enjoy McDonalds over pussy. I love The Iron Sheik. And I hope you all do too.
Love it, yet hate it. In all, this situation remains oh-so convoluted and messy. Too many unconscionably bad contracts, not enough amnesty provisions, too much back loading (WHY DIDN’T WE FRONT LOAD PIERCE’S CONTRACT), too much emotionality, too much what now appears to be awkward, bad blood (Doc must really disliked Rajon, huh?). Definitely a number of creatively brilliant scenarios in which we could reel in a somewhat seamless transition. Do we sign and trade Paul Pierce/Avery Bradley for Josh Smith, let KG walk and use the remaining cap space to sign Al Jefferson to the “fake” max? Or perhaps wheel and deal Pierce to Brooklyn (a team in dire need of dumping hefty expiring contract in 2014 while simultaneously proving capable of tossing the middle finger at tax penalties in 2013) for a trade exception and THEN move for Smith via sign and trade (how we do that I do not know but it is undoubtedly plausible). Interesting. All I know we cannot financially afford to maintain this Pierce/Garnett core and remain either competitive in the present or the future. Like I said, historical context undoubtedly plays a role. More on as to why later this evening. Mafuckas need to go hoop! RAIN DROPS!
On Monday morning, former Saint’s safety Steve Gleason, the man responsible for the breathtakingly famous punt-block the night the Superdome reopened in 2006–a play that galvanized a fan base and a city still bleeding from Hurricane Katrina and put the Saints at the vanguard of New Orleans’ recovery--guested on SI’s MMQB. Considering Gleason’s in the later, severely immobilized stages of ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease) and must both type and communicate using a program that tracks eye movement, his 4,500 word document reportedly written in four hours is quite the feat–it takes me nearly just as much time to write a 3,000 word column on Scotty Brook’s being a point “A to point B” as a point “B to point C” caliber coach. Fuck my life. Gleason’s efforts as a spokesman for a disease with unfathomable life consequences have been indescribably outstanding. And more importantly, the man’s heroic outlook makes anyone want to bury themselves in a hole for ever complaining…about anything. Scrappy, gutty, brilliantly courageous. Steve Gleason is the epitome of the tough son of a bitch we all aspire to become. Making fun of him is worthy of medieval torture (specifically “The Pear of Anguish”)
Well several hours later, turns out a couple of pathetic, unscrupulous radio show host Donkeys in Atlanta did an ENTIRE segment based on the premise of Gleason’s technologically engineered voice sounding HILARIOUS. Below is the most maniacal, smash hit joke of them all.
Weaksauce, you fucking ass hole. Nick Cellini, the dude who played the role of Gleason, has now climbed atop my list of people I want to punch in the jejunum (yes, he beat out Chris Brown, Dwight Howard, Chief Keef AND Liza Minnelli).
Real Talk, Allonzo. No one would “be all in ‘Brons ass.” Mafuckas don’t play like that.
2.) Rick Rubin for President
3.) This Danny Green Thing is Mind Boggling
Not Reggie, not RAY, not Bird, not Glenn Rice, not Billups, not Peja, not Kidd, not Hornacek, not Stockton, not Kerr, not Schrempf, not Cassell, not even fucking Jason Kapono. A collective 41 three’s in his first two NBA seasons? Shout out to the D-League. Truly an invaluable resource. Sucks to be Rashad McCants, Rayshawn Terry, Joseph Forte or the likes of any other North Carolina two guard who failed miserably at the next level.
Magical. A cliche description? Perhaps. All but too fitting? Without doubt.
One could conventionally and appropriately point to Manu’s Game 5 performance as the indelible encapsulation of a career’s worth of unorthodox, powerfully finesse finishes, remarkable competitiveness, nearly implausible attacking of seams, Sir Charles GINOBILI’s and SPUNK on a hundred, thousand, trillion now just two games away from close. Indeed, after 18 years as an intercontinental superstar, The Zohan is on the wrong, tiresome spectrum end of 35. Yet, in the here and now, why elect to look at his 24 point, 10 rebound body bagging of Mike Miller as comparable to that of say a 1993 Kevin McHale—a legend who showed powerful, captivating glimpses of the man he used to be just as things came to an unglorified end in Charlotte? How about Robert Horry—the invaluable Mr. Clutch who similarly slumped his way into a 2005 Finals Game 5 against Detroit averaging 7.6 points only to emerge with 21, 7, a capital W and a ring in seven? How about Winston Churchill—initially written off and sidelined by the English establishment a midst Hitler’s mobilization of the Nazi Regime only to be embraced as Britain’s ultimate, effective leader through a parallelistic war? Ginobili in a politically analogized nutshell, bruh.
For those of us participating in the battle of America vs. The Heat, Ginobili is our Churchill, Miami is Nazi Germany and Birdman is Ilse Koch aka the “Bitch of Buchenwald.” Golden analogizing. Fuck your feelings. I’m a Jew. Spurs in 6.
5.) We Losin’??? Come on, DAWG!
I’ll admit, declaring TANGIBLE PANIC in South Beach post Game 1 was a bit premature. Now? Well, let’s just say San Antonio’s relentlessly great offense, Miami’s improbably slim margin for error and the skewed matchup of “Who Can Make Better Adjustments: Eric Spoelstra or the Popovich/Budenholzer Tandem” has launched the barometer of anxiety into another stratosphere (remember, there are TWO bonafide head coaches on San Antonio’s sideline). Presumptuously speaking, I’m confident Miami hopefuls will shallowly look to 17, 16, 26, 24, and 24 from San Antonio’s starters who shot 39-of-61 (61 percent) as a group and make amends with the thought of that Rain Dance of a performance never happening again in Cuban dominated territory. Ahhh, but that’s where the context of “shallow” emerges. Because with the exclusion of maybe one or two of Danny Green’s outrageously contested 25 footer’s, nearly ever bucket San Antonio earned was a product of mere defensive breakdown and inability to match wit. Let us not forget that this Miami team played their BALLS off, Lebron received every bit of contribution—outside of near abysmal production from the point guard slot—needed to Stallone a motherfucker and take the capital of electronic dance music OVER THE TOP and still lost…Thought you was ready, DAWG!
As much as Game 4 may have forced us to evade allusions to those muggy, miserable Lone Star State Junes of year’s past, last night struck a return to harsh reality: San Antonio eclipsed the 100 point mark for the third time in this series (a mountain Miami allowed its playoff opponent to climb all but once prior to the Finals) and have had The Heat reeling in ways to compete that no team has managed since the 2011 Mavericks. Compromising lineup changes, flabergasting defensive rotation issues, faltering in containing dribble penetration, inordinate levels of overthinking, embarrassing mental lapse, wavering at the hands of “inferior” athletes, falling victim to prestine off ball movement (cough, cough…Mario Chalmers). It was presummed that Miami’s hyper aggressive, frenetic defensive identity would overwhelm, force The Spurs into passing over/around and encourage Gregg Popovich into an exhibition of coaching for the ages (exponentially more than its already been, that is). Instead, Lebron and company have constantly found themselves at odds with emphatic runs and identity has proved consistently plastic.
But last night’s outcome alluded to more than the precarious defensive incapacity Shane Battier coined “unacceptable” that has proved trademark to this series: the dilemma of contorting lineups is once again upon us. This Mike Miller thing, man. Jesus. Seven fouls, zero points, 45 minutes, a copious number of Manu Ginobili blow-by’s fueling The Zohan’s resurgence. Not to mention the move essentially alienated Udonis “The Heartbeat” Haslem, Birdman, and, thus, much needed energy and athleticism. A complete marginalization of a rotation’s effectiveness all to feel better equipped to win a prolonged battle of small ball and unclog the paint for Lebron. In theory, makes sense and may have proved successful for a game. Yet, the overbearing compromise defensively ain’t worth it. And now, the on fly adjustment to either work Udonis back into the lineup, supplant Mike Miller with Ray Allen or return to spells of a “traditional” two man lineups dawns at the worst of times. Lebron may very well average 31.5 in the 11 games in which he’s faced elimination (the highest in NBA history). But San Antonio is 14-2 in potential series-clinching games played on the road since start of 2002-03 postseason. Team tromps the individual given the circumstances. Sucks
Hasheem Thabeet meets Trae the Truth of The Game! Straight gettin’ it in the underground! Why ain’t this dude hoopin, though??? Eager to know whether or not he thinks of himself as the Manute Bol or Shawn Bradley type. Heard my g played ball at Mt. Zion in North Carolina. So I know dude definitely did some damage in the post back in his hay-day
No joke, I see you, big fella! For real, we’re supporting! Keep churnin’ ‘em out. Loving the lane you’ve made for yourself. As the late great Curtis Mayfield once said, “Keep on Keepin’ On.” #Salute.
So, yea, unfortunately, I cannot parade through Harvard Square, guns out, in a triple XL Tim Duncan Authentic circa 2003 draping below my knees knowing San Antonio is fully in the driver’s seat (I thought my name was Rashad 7th through 8th grade…sorry). Nonetheless, even in spite of a defiant 85 points, 30 rebounds, nine assists, 10 steals, five blocks, and 37 of 64 shooting from a Big Three appearing to have hit it’s indomitable stride, several things remains: One loss is one loss, momentum in this series is “blah,” Tony Parker will have had two full days to rest his hamstring, teams with proven championship pedigree EAT punches and tangible panic to San Antonio is irrelevant. Then again, variance is a bitch. And who knows when Danny Green and Gary Neal’s time for holding down Manu’s Ginobili’s Adam Sandler-esque slide and Tim Duncan’s middling offense is up….Bring on Game 5…Finals Shop Talk Time #HitEm
(1.) Quick Pitch: Boris Diaw’s Player Comparisons Upon Entering the NBA Were Who??
Yup, you nailed it: Scottie Pippen, Lamar Odom and Bruce Bowen. Ok, so 2013 is not exactly the fairest of windows to assess the outrageousness of such comparisons–Diaw was at one point one of the game’s more unique, sought after forwards and epitome of inside-out versatility, particularly with Phoenix. Nonetheless, Pippen, Odom and Bruce? Bruce? BRUCE?? No. Not back when, not during his seven point, three minute spell for Tiago at the close of Game 4′s first half, not never. What I do know, however, is the following: Diaw has T-rex arms, seemingly remains eligible for an NBA bench despite gaining a considerable amount of weight each and every offseason and there’s a 78% chance he’s nick-named his lovehandles in honor of Boris “The Blade” Yurinov from Snatch.
(2.) BAD Omens: Tiago SPLINTER’S Uselessness/Diminished Playing Time and Ginobili as the Common Denominator to San Antonio’s Small Ball Woes
At the onset of what now has officially proven itself as tied for the best series of the last 10 years (it doesn’t get any much better than BOS/LA in 2010), three invaluable statements characterized the Spurs chances at spurning mutiny in South Beach: Could Tony Parker, not James, be the best player on the floor in any given game, is Nando De Colo more pissed off about playing time or his name sounding like a Portuguese soft drink (I make joke!) and are the anonymous, boring, secretly excellent Spurs role players about this life? Minus the unpredictability of a Grade 1 Hamstring Pull, Tony’s good, the answer to Nando’s is he’s fucking furious, and the role players have been as cold blooded as Lil Fame and Billy Danze…until Dwyane and Lebron proved unstoppable on both ends of the floor, the small ball was all but too sensational for 48 minutes and the X-factor of that bunch, Tiago, turned from playmaker to ineffectual foil of dramatic blocks (HOW did Shane do you like that??).
Tiago failed in Game 4 in regards to helping Popovich bet on his big line ups to punish ”skill ball.” Miami’s blitzing rotations (another question mark: Are the Heat ready to defend the way they did in Game 4 for the rest of this series?) forced “Splinter” into clouded decision making, terribly un-athletic power drives to the cup and thus turned his coveted playmaking out of the pick and roll moot.
So who plays if Tiago doesn’t settle himself and hike his minutes back up to somewhere around 20? Boris Diaw can better accommodate to Miami’s 48 minutes of small ball hell as his more than half way decent drive and kick skills will be useful when the “no-names” need to squad up towards the end of the shot clock. Not to mention the Diaw/Duncan combination stirred up some confusion in transition (a Diaw corner three/a lay up via acting as a roaming trailer) and proved plus-5 in nine minutes. And unless Bonner can get rolling from deep, he’s a mere ineffectual decoy who has no exact worth alongside Splitter or Duncan…BRING ON DUJAUN BLAIR (seriously, he’s burly, laterally quick enough and most certainly has adopted the “forever ready” DNA of Spur basketball)?? Thus, the answer is…well, there’s no definitive answer. The nine San Antonio small lineups that have logged at least five minutes in this series are a combined minus-8 in 76 minutes. Small ball combos with The Zohan (Ginobili), particularly the once-upon-a-time threatening Ginobili-Splitter combination, has proved a disastrous minus-20 in 33 minutes, with much of the damage coming in small-ball combos. We’ve caught glimpses of San Antonio’s most theoretically promising small lineup, that of Parker(or Neal)-Green-Ginobili-Leonard-Duncan. Yet, per NBA.com, that group was a minus-33 over a paltry 75 minutes combined in the regular reason and playoffs before this series and hasn’t seen much improvement.
In all, Thiago’s “skill ball,” as Bill Walton would call it, incapacities from Game 4 have forced the Spurs into a prolonged small-ball battle. And unless Ginobili can tromp his 7.5 points per game on 34.5 percent from the field and less than 20 percent from behind the 3-point line, the small-ball battle is all but lost.
3.) Lebron James: Thomas “Babe” Levy or Blanche Dubois?
Let’s be real, Lebron James is deserving of an Academy Award for the narrative he has created for himself in San Antonio. Utter brilliance. Scripted to perfection. All incredulous eye on the protagonist as he crumbles to his apex of self-destruction. Baffled, brutalized, questioned, unable to turn a corner similar to that of Game 6 in Boston or 2012′s Finals against the Thunder. Near the entire world is either throwing a tantrum or joyously fist pumping at the TV as a supposed King precariously blanks on his record setting offensive efficiency and Szell aka the diamond hoarding Nazi doctor from the Marathon Man aka Gregg Popovich (not that he hates Jews but you get my analogy) drills at a morale-less mid-range arsenal—the same arsenal that has made the likes of Kobe and MJ iconic. Lebron then trolls through the first four minutes of Game 4 as troublingly pedestrian and, BOOM, over and OVER again, he steamrolls up the left sideline and accelerates to the middle of the paint off of virtually everything—made baskets/made free throws included—for three consecutive pulverizing finishes in transition followed by a barrage of Kawhi/Bonner contested yet effortless 15 footers. Much like Thomas “Babe” Levy (Dustin Hoffman), he’s rediscovered what makes him; his ability to run, his ability to escape.
Lebron James is blessed with a circuitry ingenious to the “Best Player on Earth” role. He periodically shies from his dominate streak in the biggest of moments, infuriates us when he makes the right basketball play (kicks to an open shooter) instead of emphatically barreling all 290 pounds to the cup every time down the floor (I’m convinced that’s James’ actual weight), and he’s never exactly prided himself on sculpting his legacy within the confines of a midrange area (On one hand can I count iconic images of Lebron splashing jumpshots). Yet, its the experience of watching him uproot all criticism and imperfection in the blink of an eye that makes his narrative, his movie rather, that much more captivating. Motion pictures evoking the realest of human emotions are what most warrant the attention of The Academy. And James, with all his misfirings, becomes more Oscar worthy when he revitalizes his image and fulfills our need for a hero by achieving the near impossibility of perfection after his close to disappointing and failing performances. A quality in character would making any potential slew of titles that much more riveting.
Who knows. Maybe Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh succumb to the bitch that is volatility and Lebron’s 2013 NBA Finals narrative is likened to that of a Blanche DuBois from a Street Car Named Desire—The fading, but still attractive, Southern Belle who relies far too heavily on her sister (Dwyane), brother in law (Bosh) and strangers (Ray Allen, Mario Chalmers, Mike Miller and company) to take care of her life. Nonetheless, whether the protagonist ends up destroyed/raped like Blanche because of the unreliability of others or is able to triumph and maintain his heroic image will remain to be seen, depending as it does on the outcome of this series.
Kids…what a flick. Went straight for the “wow” factor there. Let’s hope Rajon doesn’t channel his inner Brain Game anger onto Danny Ainge after he promotes KG to player-coach in lieu of Doc Rivers abandoning Boston (its the only way of convincing KG to stay in town, brother!). Man, is the 2013-2014 season going to suck ass…Management will regrettably/inevitably either buyout the remaining $15 mill on my childhood hero’s contract (makes no sense to trim $10 million off our committed salary when he’s an expiring contract worth $15 mill and a movable asset) or “preferably” sign and trade him and Avery Bradley for Josh Smith (an AAU player only “worthy” of the dreaded max with Doc Rivers at the helm). In addition to my sorrow, amnestying Courtney Lee is of no relevance to Danny Ainge even though he’s due $16.4 FUCKING million over the next three years (HE PLAYED 19 TOTAL MINUTES THIS POST SEASON! WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOOD WITH THAT CONTRACT!), Fab Melo still can’t walk without tripping over his two feet and KG most likely will part ways. Bring on the re-building period, folks. Let’s just hope management can creatively and brilliant finagle its way into preventing a decade’s worth of horrid basketball memory. If I even have to think twice about the days of Kedrick Brown and Jerome Moiso I’ll off myself.
P.S. If Nate Robinson fails to make Courtney Lee types of guap this post season then I vote hate crime.
I’d say Danny Green’s tea bagging of Greg Paulus justifiably characterizes the confidence of San Antonio’s role players. Is that not the most unbelievable photo you’ve ever seen? Spacevinyl needs to make us some T-Shirts! ANTEEEE UP! #HitEm
Quick Pitch: The Insanity That Is Lebron’s Finals Statistics
•LeBron James was 7-for-21 shooting with 15 points in Game 3, and 7-for-17 shooting with 17 points in Game 2. Michael Jordan never scored fewer than 22 points in an NBA Finals game. In the worst Finals game of Jordan’s life, his 22-point effort in Game 4 of the 1997 Finals against Utah, he at least shot 11-for-27 from the field. That’s still a higher shooting percentage than James had on Tuesday against San Antonio. Below are Jordan’s statistics compared to that of Lebron in NBA Finals games where a series is tied (According to Sheridan Hoops). I honestly wish the MJ comparisons weren’t slipping away, but they undeniably are.
3 FG %
• Game 3 marked the first time James failed to reach the free throw line for the first time since December 2009. According to Basketball-Reference.com, James had been held without a foul shot eight times before in his career — half of them during his rookie season.
• When the inaccurate shooting is combined with the missing free throws, James’ true shooting percentage during Game 3 (.357) was not only his worst of the season (previously .412 in a January loss at Portland) but also his worst since — yup, you guessed it — the 2011 Finals, when his eight-point Game 4 produced a .312 true shooting percentage
Quick(er) Hit: I Guess A Lot of People Hated The 10 Year Old Mariachi Singer Who Sang Game 3′s Anthem…
People? You mean, Sheeple? Buffoonery. Who in the world hastags #Wetback?
You Got What You Deserved Because You Didn’t Stick With What Works, Brother.
It is only until looking beyond headlines and articles of analysis infested with unforeseen statistics and troublesome allusions characterizing Lebron James’ “Crisis of Confidence” that we acknowledge Game 3′s truest narrative: Miami caught a peculiar case of amnesia on both ends of the floor. Um, hello? Remember the whole thing where Lebron caused absolute mayhem and laid chinks to San Antonio’s defensive armor in acting as the screener in pick/rolls? Seemingly impossible to guard, forcing guys into undesirable switches and awkward split second decisions, WIDE open teammates, finding ways of getting your superstar the rock in positions where he isn’t staring down a roaming seven footer (Kawhi Leonard, when considering his length) buried 15 feet into the paint from a standstill, points per possession going through the roof? YOU GUYS SCORED EVERY TIME! I’m sure Popovich peeped his advanced stat sheet, immediately looked to .36 points per possession on fourteen isolations (14.4% of Miami’s Game 3 offense, the highest mark of the series) and smirked. Playing into San Antonio’s game plan of winning the battle of half ass percentages, bro’s. Combine the lack of such action with a PECULIAR lack of ingenious block to block screening involving James for better post up position and BOOM life as jump shooter becomes that much more unforgiving. Love it.
The BEAUTIFUL “gif” above precisely embodies what Miami looked like defensively. Half assed hyper aggressive traps, a defensive identity obsolete of freneticism, looks of disbelief after blown rotations, utter befuddlement. Other than finding Duncan early in the low post, there were no exceptional adjustments made by Pop. All San Antonio essentially did was play an ‘ol fashioned, uninterrupted backyard game of catch along the perimeter, forced guys into discombobulated closeouts/rotations and man handled the battle of second chance opportunities because no one was in good enough position to properly box (DOES ANYONE ON MIAMI BOX OUT?? CHRIST!).
To think we’ll be seeing yet another laughably inept, goose egg of a defensive performance from Miami is stupid. They’ll ANTE UP their trademark freneticism and better defend the perimeter (not to mention the likelihood of Gary Neal knocking down a ridiculous number of well contested, one dribble pull up facials from deep won’t be as promising, which helps). But if Lebron can’t take/make some of his jumpshots, San Antonio isn’t forced to extend and close out, and Spoelstra feels inclined to enlist his Ray Allen/Mike Miller lineups to make James’ life easier offensively, you’d have to suspect Miami remains in trouble.
The Scoop: IS MY MIND’S PLAYING TRICKS ON ME?!
Writing off arguably the greatest season in NBA statistics history, four MVP’s or past all encompassing efforts decomposing the label of a once upon a time wide-eyed superstar lacking the mental fortitude to enter an upper echelon of NBA legend would prove preposterous (even though in retrospect his list of transcendent defining moment is not as extensive as we naturally presume). Lebron James is bar none the best player on the planet and most certainly built for the do or die stakes of Game 4 rivaling that of 2012′s Game 6 in The Garden. Yet, given such circumstance, small sample sizes are regrettably realer than The Wire‘s depiction of Baltimore City’s West Side, numbers are numbers and reality is reality: San Antonio has won all but seven minutes and fifty seven seconds of this series (Miami Hurricane Cleo we’ll call it), game planned for The King roughly the same way they did six years ago and how every NBA team does for Rondo, deterred his accustomed percentage of restricted area attempts by a full 13% and, disregarding back end statistics such as rebounds and assists, have made James look as pedestrian as Rudy Gay. In other words, we’ve seemingly returned to those miserable, loathsome Lone Star State Junes of 2007 and 2011.
Dwyane Wade, in inarticulate yet profound fashion, best explained the phenomenon that is Lebron’s struggles: “Their defensive scheme, it’s to go under a lot of the pick-and-rolls, to play off a lot…And when they do that, you have the shot most of the time. So it takes away some of your aggressiveness at times, because you have the shot that you can make in your sleep and you’re like, ‘I’m going to shoot it,’ and then it don’t go in. But you have to keep shooting it.”
Ah. alas, DAAWYANNEE, you poet, therein lies the rub: the discomfort of performing what appears oh-so naturally routine (16-23 foot jumpshots) with an unaccustomed, inordinate amount of room—the art of a mind fuck. In essence, Gregg Popovich has laid option to Lebron similar to that of an indulgent parent who gives their irresponsible, club-goer, cocaine addict of a son a Black Card despite his recent release from rehab (its a revolving door, not a solution); the choice is your’s, but ultimately you, son, must live with the consequences of that choice. Do I make the right basketball play, defer to my teammates and run the risk of being chastised as too passive? Do I try bulling through a roaming seven footer named Kawhi Leonard (again, that’s considering length) backed by a sturdy, second line of defense playing the principles of verticality to a “T” and run the consequence of acting foolishly aggressive? Do I take what the defense gives me, look to make jump shots and leave myself vulnerable to being critiqued as the James who shot just as miserably from outside the paint when I was an under-equipped, far from remarkably bald 22 year old in 2007′s NBA Finals?
And as a result of such pragmatism involving a sinkage of all five Spurs in the paint along with Kawhi’s length, strength, intangibles (anticipation/LARGE hands) and lateral quickness to both contest and belly up with James when attempting to rediscover the natural order of his effectiveness, Lebron has been forced into the unforgiving, susceptible to slump lifestyle of a jump shooter (that’s basketball, folks). James’ NBA Finals field goal percentages (in comparison to the regular season) from midrange and beyond the arc have depreciated by a full 20% and 15% (on more attempts), percentages in isolations are below 30% as the floor’s geometry has disallowed any consistent capacity to blow by and get the initial defender on his hip, and, thus, his hesitancy and deference are at an infuriating high (just ask Magic Johnson).
Let’s get this straight: Lebron James will not be the Lebron James of Games 1, 2 and 3. Place both the staring at the players in front of him like he’s entirely unaware of his ability to physically dominate and the passiveness on the back burner (although not all together because James should continue to make the right basketball play and kick when three to four guys collapse on his angles). There will be no rendition of Game 3′s two first quarter and six total first half shot attempts (and if there is Lebron’s life is OVER!). Of course, Spoelstra will throw in some of the here and there action mentioned above for Lebron. Nonetheless, Game 4′s outcome will ultimately be credited to James’ ability to decisively win the battle of taking and making jump shots and extend San Antonio’s defense. His indecisiveness coming off of pick and rolls should prove nonexistent, his aggression will be insane and he’ll raise up and jack without the slightest bit of hesitation when Thiago Splitter does this
Does Pop prove adament about Lebron making a full game’s worth of 15 to 23 foot jumpers before he adjusts? Beats me. But what I do know is I LOVE the volatility of a Lebron James jump shot. And so do the Spurs.
“All I’m Hearing is Pots and Pans…Go Fuck Yourself”
Man, is he ruthless. Interviewing Gregg Popovich has to be the most nerve racking task of all time. Anything you say essentially turns into an incoherent mess of utter stupidity. Anxiously chuckling immediately spirals into a look of stark aggravation from Pop screaming, “If you aren’t Doris Burke then fuck off.” Next, an internalized realization of feeling like the biggest idiot on earth followed by a soiled pair of boxer briefs. The Jabrone humiliated for asking Pop if he’d “Mail In” Game 4 as a means of protecting Tony Parker for Game’s 5, 6 and possibly 7? Lock yourself in a bathroom and scream like an obese Jonah Hill, dude. #HitEm