Category Archives: nba

4th Quarter Conversations w/ My Jewish Mother, Prolonged Devastation, Kawhi/The Cookout & Much More

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An amalgamation of a “shot through the heart,” a Dennis Green searing press conference, the enthusiasm and excitement of Richard Simmons amongst morbidly obese middle-aged women, an inspirational Kenny Loggins with the knack for impromptu musical spiritual healing, and a morose trio of African American baritone and tenors from Philly. I’ve now watched arguably the greatest show in NBA history for a third time in full, and that’s my best attempt at describing the emotionality of last night’s near unconscionable unfolding of events. Heart broken, infuriated, enthralled, hopeful, determined to vicariously prevail yet realistic: the end of the road for what would have definitively solidified a 37 year-old age-less savant’s disinterested quest for the Greatest Player of His Generation and the highly doubtful naming of the most improbable Finals MVP in 67 years is upon us…worst…loss…ever.

Comparable to 1988′s Hardwood, Game 6, LA Laker classic pillaging of Detroit’s heart despite a god-like 25 point third quarter from the Wounded Warrior, Isiah Thomas (43 in total; Big Game James then led a LA to grind it out of a Game 7 victory to the tune of 36, 16 and 10). A sour experience of Deja Vu in regards to knowing what it feels like to have your soul murdered over breathtaking big shots and questionable no calls (i.e. sitting in bar on Causeway St., buckled, all while Metta World Peace knocks down that worthy of projectile vomit jab step, pull back right wing 23 footer to go up six with 1:01 left in Game 7 and Pau Gasol yanks Rajon Rondo to the ground for a clinching offensive rebound…GIVE ME FIVE YEARS OF MY LIFE BACK, IT WAS FIXED!). America vs. The Heat, folks. Those Cuban, plastic, blonde hair, big titty, Pitbull/Music Festival loving, $300,000 bar mitzvah’d motherfuckers slapped Pat Riley in the grill, left the game early and emerged to see yet another day of greatness undeserved to them. And unfortunately, in considering the last road team to win a Game 7 of the Finals was Wes Unseld’s 1978 Bullets, I, you, AMERICA, is wavering on Thursday’s outcome. I’m experiencing what life felt like after Game 6 in Boston; Recovery is bordering incomprehensible. NBA Finals Shop Talk Time. #HitEm

1.) As You All Know, This Happened. 



I wish both Alonzo Mourning and his enormous wife could clap back on each and every Miami Heat unfaithful. Which equates to sitting on 500,000 plus folk

(2.) HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? I’m having hot flashes like a pregnant bitch in Hanoi…THAT happened? The Spurs CRUMBLING happened (as unlikely as Venus transiting across the face of the sun before 2117)? Questionable substitutions from a coach oh so close to joining the Mount Rushmore of basketball minds unfolded in the most unimaginable way possible happened? Do you remember that third quarter? How debilitated, smug, outworked, and befuddled Miami looked? How resilient, locked in, triumphant (Duncan double fist pumps), and unnerved San Antonio looked? Tony Parker’s floating, two footed AND 1 runner knocking the life out of a nearly immaculate, hyper aggressive Miami defensive possession saved by a Boris Diaw extra effort. Kawhi Leonard’s brilliant anticipation of the passing lanes en route to a Lebron James turnover, a full-fledged mushing of Ray Allen and an AND 1 transition lay up. A third consecutive AND1 put back from Tim Duncan. All of which was capped off by two INSANE instances of Lebron James and Dwyane Wade tantrumming in the backcourt after far from debatable no calls resulting in costly cross matches, a Gary Neal-Chris Bosh blow by for a lay up and a ten point lead entering the 4th. Patty Mills is waving the fuck out of his Aboriginal towel, Tiago Splitter’s pouring in two of the more hysterical, seemingly eyes closed jump hooks in the history of jump hooks during a questionable spell for Tim Duncan. I literally tasted blood. Lebron James then HAPPENS (can you believe James had 12 points on 3-10 shooting with five minutes remaining in the third?) until he pulls one of these, dribbles himself into a hesitation, evades a simple 12 foot pull up over the smaller Tony Parker, and loses the rock as Duncan smothers his progress to the right side of the cup down four with 38 seconds left in regulation…What’s Next? Well, missed free threes, a Lebron James three, more missed free throws, AND…

(3.) BOOM….Ray Allen….Man, Am I Miserable

I’m not salty, I’m not envious, I’m not resentful (somewhat) and I’m not a sorry loser. I’m miserable and as heart broken as San Antonio Fans were in 2006 after Derek Fisher’s unfathomable, slingshot, turn around jumper with 0.4 seconds on the clock (I want Doc back in broadcasting). Business is Business, professional sports are professional sports and loyalty is a myth. Ray Allen rightfully made power moves, prematurely abandoned ship a year prior to full-fledged implosion and got his. If Paul Pierce has to go because Danny Ainge back loaded his contract and forced us into a position where remaining competitive through rebuilding essentially comes down to reeling in assets for Pierce while on the right, moveable end of 35, then Ray Allen has every right to leave. Turning down $12 million in favor of $9M over three years sucks, yet it is what it is. But when I see Flo in a star studded Heat Jersey a midst the like of jabrones screaming “Seven Nations Army” I shed a tear. Miserable. Enjoying Ray Ray’s heroics is one thing. Enjoying Flo, my boo, is another. (4.) Tweet of the Night:

Quran Pender aka Todd Anderson aka the imaginary first overall pick of the 2004 draft from America’s 15th favorite African American comedy, The Cookout, and Kawhi Leonard: Best…Lookalike…Ever. I’m confident Quran Pender has not been searched for on Google in over 2,367 days.

(5.) Can Tim Duncan Be FAMOUS Tim Duncan Again?

I was leaning on either Lebron to eviscerate the Spurs in resemblant Game 6 Garden fashion or Duncan to dig deep into the archive of sneakily transcendent Tim Duncan closeout games. I correctly leaned on the FAMOUS Tim Duncan performance seven minutes before tip. He delivered…for 30 minutes, and then he somewhat wilted, in far from condescending fashion. Right hooks, left hooks, cross over step through finishes, middle of the paint leaners. Both an on the block onslaught of Chris Bosh and an emphatic demonstration of an arsenal that has “bored” us for 16 years until Lebron put on the most impressive, ubiquitous nine minutes these eyes have ever seen (*footnote: am I right in saying that Duncan has yet to have his so called “iconic” NBA Finals moment? No real legacy definer that we can without hesitation lean on at any given time? Hence, sneakily transcendent. Last night would’ve served as that moment. Slipped through our Cruciaannn Legend loving fingers. Shucks!).

Manu Ginobili had the Superbowl of his GINOBILI’S in Game 5, Danny Green may get loose through surveying the baseline and second chance kick backs/long rebounds but he’s more or less strapped, Gary Neal will have his window of opportunity to morph himself into a Vinny “The Microwave” Johnson but I ain’t banking on it, Boris Diaw is 400 pounds and is stil exhausted at 3pm on Wednesday afternoon and Tiago Splitter is Tiago Splinter. Thus, Thursday ultimately comes down to Tony Parker and Tim Duncan pulling vintage Tony Parker and Tim Duncan’s. Can they? No one has a clue, basketball analysis is entirely irrelevant, it all comes down to sheer power of will. I’d prefer Duncan, my muse (pause). So here are Duncan’s closeout game numbers just a reminder of how sneakily transcendent the man is capable of being. God’s Speed:

1999: Game 5 at New York (31 and 9) … 2003: Game 6 at Los Angeles in Western Conference Finals (37-16-4 with two blocks) and Game 6 against New Jersey (the famous near-quadruple-double: 21-20-10-8) … 2005: Game 6 at Phoenix in Western Conference Finals (31 and 15) and Game 7 against Detroit (25 and 11 on a sprained ankles) … 2007: Game 4 at Cleveland (12 and 15). 

(6.) My Stream of Conversation With My Nasally, Jewish Mother During The Last Four Minutes of Game 6

Mom: (Storming in from her bedroom) Did you just see Tony Parker??

Me: Yea, holy shit.

Mom: UnFUCKINGbelievable. He’s so handsome. What happened to Eva??

Me: Brent Barry’s Wife

Mom: WHAT??

Me: Nevermind.

Mom: This is so exciting! Laaahbrahhn’s gonna do it! Can Gregg Popahhvich do it? Where’s Splittahh? Oy, I’m nervous. Did someone just put the ball in the basket? I can’t look…

Me: Please…Go in the other room

Mom: Daddy’s rooting for The Heat!

Me: Henry’s pulling for Nazi Germany full of Cubans

Mom: You are a real nasty mothahfuckah, you know that?

Me: Love you, Mom

Mom: I love you too, do you want a Roast Beef Sandwich and some spinach quiche for lunch tomorrow? Its from Barry’s!

(7.) Hedge, Recover, Contest, Block, BOSH, Kiss Rashard Lewis!

Has any African American, yet alone Caucasian, athlete rallied to the tune of “gird up our loins, and get back on the horse“? I think not. Both unintentionally homoerotic and golden? Of course. Its hard to imagine being Miami’s most important player, the NBA’s best pick and roll defender, and capable of operating in guard-to-big cross matches better than anyone at your position (evident in his work against Tony Parker) all while emphatically flipping the script of a finals narrative entirely through playing like a god damn warrior…only to be remembered for kissing Rashard Lewis.

P.S. This is and forever will be the best video on the Internet

Clippers “Call Off” Potential Deal With Celtics Involving Doc & KG: Fuck

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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!

NBA Finals Talk: Rick Rubin or Gandalf? TANGIBLE PANIC! Ginobili or Winston ChurCHILL?

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1.) Knowledge From the 36th Best High School Prospect in the Class of 2015…

 

Real Talk, Allonzo. No one would “be all in ‘Brons ass.” Mafuckas don’t play like that.

2.) Rick Rubin for President

#Swerve

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.

4.) GINOBILI!

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

 

NBA Finals Talk: Messin’ With the Zohan, Tiago SPLINTER & Lebron James or Blanche DuBois?

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by: Chris Kattan

Here we are:

After hours of unruly politically correct analysis, incredulous reaction in regards to inferior athletes picking apart the best basketball player on earth through poetic precision and rebuke of a Big Three on the verge of implosion, The Heat shat…on everything. 33 from Lebron, 32 from Flash, and 20 from an Ostrich to go along with a whole bunch of small ball opportunism and fine-tuned defensive communication/urgency I once argued comparable to that of the ’95 Clippers in Game 3 (shout out my g, Eric Piatkowski!); The first time in Finals history that two players scored 30 points and a teammate added 20 since Game 2 of the 1995 Finals, when Houston defeated Orlando behind Hakeem Olajuwon (34), Sam “SAM!” Cassell (31) and Clyde Drexler (23). The demoralizing Chris Bosh/Bobcats fathomable trade talks (Alex Len, baby) that would hurt anyone’s feelings, the vouching to diffuse Dwyane Wade/Lebron James lineups through convincing, statistics oriented evidence of Dwyane’s corpse ruining Miami’s offensive rhythm, on going allusions to muggy, miserable Lone Star Junes of 2007 and 2011. For what now remains a full day and several hours, all of it will subside, everyone will forget how laughably inept one looks after taking 17 dribbles before pulling up for a 25 footer when isolated with a dude who I’d prefer to nickname “Splinter” because he’s a pain in my ass, and Chris Bosh no longer must produce biblical yet homoerotic rally cries: “We just gotta accept [what happened in Game 3], gird up our loins, and get back on the horse.”—Like a BOSH!

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.

See you Sunday night sharp,
Chris Kattan

The Things I’d Do To See Rajon Rondo Lose In Connect Four….

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When the Maniacle Wizard of Connect Four miraculously gets out witted by a 12 year old at Dorchester’s own Blue Hill Boys and Girls Club, does he have the urge to do this?

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mexicans, LBJ Deja Vu-Doo (?), Jordan Comparisons No More (?) & Going Away From What Works

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by: Chris Kattan

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

Shall We?

•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.

Even Series Games FG % 3 FG % Points Reb Assists FTA Win %
Jordan 10 50.6 48.3 33.7 6 6.2 8 80
James 8 42.3 30.6 20.5 10.1 6.25 4.1 37.5

• 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.

San Antonio in 6. #HitEm

 

Don’t We All Love it When Gregg Popovich Manhandles a Press Conference?

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“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

Lebron Walks in 2014 If He See’s This Miami Heat Fan Bandwagon Video

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I can’t tell if Stalley’s lookalike supporting Librarious Booker’s existence understands Kimmel’s joke or is simply exhibiting symptoms of schizophrenia. Either way, small sample size or not, Miami Heat fans are fucking oblivious bandwagonites. Its without a doubt fact. Did any of these Jabrones give a shit when ‘Zo, Brian “Dreadlocks with Parkinson’s” Grant, Eddie Jones and Tim “No Homo” Hardaway were losing in the first round of the playoffs to New York and Charlotte back in the earlier part of the millennium? Absolutely not. Surprised no one went out of their way to interview some overweight resident of Boca Raton disguised as a Cuban rocking a pony tail, a gucci fedora, a deep white v-neck, Prada sunglasses and his wrist band from Ultra 2011 (goodtimes). Every reason as to why I think its acceptable for Lebron to make a move back to Cleveland (or better yet, Los Angeles). I mean for christ sakes, Lebron’s most staunch supporter is Flo Rida’s manager. The basketball god’s are fed up with his playing for an organization that has to blurt out “DOS MINUTOOOS! DOS!” towards the close of each quarter because 65% percent of their fan base can’t speak English. Not to mention everyone shows up 20 minutes late, has no idea what’s going on and Instagrams the whole time they are at American Airlines.

NBA Finals Notes: 2K14 is Insane, Oh-My Kawhi, & The Dilemma of Lebron as a Screener

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Well, the nearly impossible task of stealing a Game 2 transitioned from somewhat promising through a half to an absolutely disconcerting 33-5 Hurricane Cleo of a run within a mere 14 minutes. Kamakazi-esque traps, creative switches, elevated levels of urgency and defensive rotations defying Ruben Feffer of Along Came Polly’s conventional theories of risk management obliterated every ingenious Spurs counter. A frenetic defensive identity was established, bullish transition offense overwhelmed, Chris Bosh found his 15 foot home, Mike Miller was fucking fantastic, and, consequently, we must watch at least one more grandiose, “bone-chilling,” player introduction in which a bunch of fair-whether assclowns chant Seven Nation Army and a dude identical to Pitbul waves a flag. Oh my lanter indeed.

Yet, the storm has calmed, reality has set in, momentum is nothing but an eight letter word and, thus, its On to the Next One. There lies the entitled beauty of San Antonio’s world: Tangible panic is irrelevant. A single, dismantling loss from the Spurs will never convince wavering beat writers of flooding their media stream with obsessive coverage of a Big Three’s inadequacies. We get it: Manu played like Adam Sandler in The Longest Yard but worse (his level of discombobulation was surprisingly absurd), Duncan couldn’t hit the backside of a barn from the left block, and Miami’s pick and roll defense threw the Frenchman for a ride. Nevertheless, a storied past full of rings and daunting winning percentages are set in stone; one shall never question San Antonio’s DNA until Chief Keef says its over. They’ll look at their being up one with three minutes left in the third, and move on.

But MAN have the stakes run rampant: The winner of Game 3 has determined the series winner in 11 of the past 12 NBA Finals starting 1-1…Thank god David Stern has yet to realize what the 2-3-2 format does to home court advantage. Spurs in 6. NBA Shop Talk Time, People. #HitEm

(1.) Salute, Tracy McGrady.

Salute. That is all. God Damn consummate professional

(2.) Quick Pitch: Kawhi Leonard is All But to Worthy of the “Fake” Max 

Intangibles are through the roof (bear traps for hands), can both play and defend four positions if need be, possesses a right-to-left/left-to-right below the knees rip through that would make any basketball junkie obsessed with the fundamentals go ape shit, is every bit proficient if not better than Paul George as a rebounder, spews perennial first team all defense potential (never seen anyone beat a superstar to the spot much like he does), epitomizes the definition of perfect teammate and at the rate with which he’s demonstrated improvement will surely be an all encompassing B to B+ threat off the bounce, with the pass, in the post and beyond the arc by the age of 24. That’s three full years, folks. AND he’s the only dude in the NBA carrying on Allen Iverson’s Cornrow Legacy. Last of a dying breed indeed. George Hill/Mike Conley/Demar Derozan types of money come 2015.

3.) Video Games Are Too Real

Absurd. Can’t wait. The soundtrack will undoubtedly be deserving of a Grammy. That Jay track sounds Loco Bananas

4.) Game Planning For Lebron as the Screener in Pick/Roll Situations (with Mario Chalmers specifically) Makes Me Want to Throw Up

Game 2′s 14 to 3 run closing out the third quarter—a run ultimately spurning an unconquerable Miami Heat 7:58 monsoon—was a product of James imprinting his will through the “unconventional”: Screening. Here’s a quick sequence of pick and roll action featuring Lebron as the screener through that run’s first five minutes: LBJ Pick & Roll>>Two Free Throws for Lebron, LBJ Pick & Roll>>Mario Chalmers Layup, LBJ Pick & Roll>>Mario Chalmers AND1, LBJ Pick & Roll>>Mike Miller Three From the Left Wing Extended, LBJ Pick & Roll>>Ray Allen Corner Three…Holy Hell!

Likening Lebron James as a screener to the trunk of a Sequoia Tree capable of uprooting itself from the earth, exploding from a standstill much like an F1 does from the pole, moving with the coordination of a lead in Swan Lake and possessing an understanding of how to tear apart a chessboard with a single move comparable to that of Bobby Fisher could be considered a series of absurd analogies. Yet, when reflecting on such comparison as both a player and coach, a Sequoia tree’s trunk with hips of a dancer, the explosiveness of a single seat open wheel race car and off the charts IQ begins to harness truth. The task of defending “IT” is so daunting that you seemingly cannot do much other than to hope Miami shoots themselves in the foot or simply misses shots.

Just look at what’s pictured above. As Lebron screens for Mario Chalmers in the middle of the floor going right and rolls, Kawhi Leonard can conventionally perform one of the two: Either I (1.) appropriately show help, sink into the paint as means of preventing a head full of steam drive to the front of the rim from Mario, and hope that I can recover on to Lebron in time to help contest (this is what Kawhi ultimately ends up doing, but fails as Lebron lays it in) or (2.) I show no (maybe fake) help and see if Mario Chalmers can make a play. Ah, but there lies the shit storm. Option #1: I show help for that much needed split second, Mario hits Lebron on the roll and BOOM he’s mid-air, at the rim challenging Tim Duncan before I can drop and recover. Option #2: I don’t show help, whomever is guarding the ball handler immediately trails because Lebron is a brick house and has mastered the art of setting picks, Chalmers is deep in the lane and BOOM a two on one scenario with Chalmers, Birdman and Duncan ensues.

Post ups and isolations aside, the decision of not forcing San Antonio into figuring out the Lebron as a screener dilemma for a majority of tonight’s game would be confusing to say the least. That being said, what’s the move? Going under comes at a premium—all Miami then has to do is take it to the sideline and start the action lower. Thus, do you pick your poison in switching everything? Do you just take away the roll option entirely, focus on making sure Lebron’s kept below 20 for a third consecutive game (the only other time that happened to ‘Bron in the playoffs was Games 3, 4, and 5 of the 2011 NBA Finals in Dallas), and see if per chance Mario Chalmers can beat you with 25 (a moment the Alaskan is built for and did in Game 4 of 2012′s NBA Finals)? Do you look into aggressively trapping the ball handler and forcing him into throwing it over the top? Because unless Lebron has to veer back out to the arc to act as an escape option, its bloody murder. Don’t belieeeeme then watch (WOOOO!)

In all, the potential rotations San Antonio can throw at Miami are so insane that they cannot exactly be described in no less than 3000 words. So I guess we’ll just wait until tomorrow to visually and verbally describe Pops bag of Game 3 tricks.

Lets. Fucking. Go. #HitEm

Me-Oh-My: Lebron James Pounds Thiago Splitter’s Potato

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DON’T START NO SHIT THEY WON’T BE NO SHIT!!!! Hats off to Miami’s coaching staff for the brilliant adjustments. The multiple switches on Tony Parker, Wade-less lineups doing work, Chris Bosh camping within 23 feet on every possession down the floor, successfully forcing the issue with hyper aggressive double teams. An unexpected absolute manhandling. Wow. And of course, we had Lebron with an oddly uninvolved yet remarkably dominant performance. Can’t remember the last time a superstar asserted his will on a game simply by setting on ball screens. Seemingly human, yet alien outing. Loving all of it. I live for this.