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.
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).
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.
Peep the Jack Daniels nips game…give me that shirt.
Fuck a TSA requirement…I’ve been doin’ this for three years…STOP SNITCHIN’! I wonder if the white pilot’s stomach dropped when forced to ask those dudes for ID.
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.
My calling has been found. Sign my ass up for a qualifier and these lads will soon enough be calling me the Mad Dog Madison of the toe wrestling world. Are you witnessing below what is my great toe? Fucking MASSIVE bro…combine that with my overwhelming inner most plantar strength and its OVER THE TOPPPPP!
Where am I gonna go man?? Cliffs on both sides, I’m not gonna paddle to New Zealand!!
Man do I miss Patrick Swayze (R.I.P.), Special Agent Utah, that nameless Australian cop’s glorious cameo, and, of course, Swayze’s knack for being one of the more electric son of a bitches this industry has ever seen. Cinematography’s greatest final eight minutes in the history of final eight minutes? God damn right Bodhi and Utah’s fisticups during high tide in a once in a lifetime storm tromp The Departed‘s amalgamation of brilliantly twisted plot lines, Anthony Anderson’s confusion (Ant was CONFUSED in that mind boggling roof top standoff), and candid “NUH, UH, NO HE DIDN’T JUST SHOOT LEO IN THE HEAD” reactions. So yes. Why? Well, 1.) The 15 to 20 second monologues are unreal, 2.) “vaya con tios,” bro and 3.) nothing beats watching an iconic figure of the 90′s disguised as a maniacal, America’s Most Wanted surfer bro ride a colossal wave of most certain death. All while another iconic 90′s figure looks on in a state of bereft contentment, there soon after gallantly tossing his badge over shoulder as Ratt’s “Nobody Rides For Free” cues the movie’s exit. God Bless Point Break, God Bless Patrick Swayze, and God Bless Ratt. #HitEm
P.S. Patrick Swayze is SUPER WAVY
P.S.S. Why couldn’t French have remained loyal to his roots and not fucked with Ross and Drake purely as means of making money? You know he doesn’t actually fucks with them boys.
Ya boy Chris Kattan w/ that insightful, yet comical knowledge. We’ll stray away from in depth previewing of the NBA finals; Best we wait until what should be the greatest series of the decade officially kicks off. The theme music for this week’s episode? American Antagon1st’s “The Narcissist.” Kevin Hart doesn’t have to convince me on shit! The joint is hot regardless of his endorsement! #HitEm
1.) What We Can Learn From Mike Conley’s 5 Year, $48 Million Contract Extension and PAYING First Round Picks Come Their 4th Year
It was somewhat of a discussion during the playoffs but you know how Chris Wallace, Memphis’ GM, was once brutalized for showing such enormous faith in the at the time frail, somewhat offensively inept twerp by paying him HEAVY point guard money? Well, if I haven’t jogged your memory yet, Memphis’ fan base nearly went up in flames when Wallace signed Mike “My Pops Can Dunk From the Free Throw Line And He’s 5’11″ Conley to a $48 million extension in 2010. Crazy shit talk surfaced:“You drafted Grievas Vasquez to back him up, that’s how bad he’s been” or “I can’t even mock other franchises because you’ve given them the ultimate trump card” or better yet “bear in mind I’ve seen Todd Kahan, Isaiah Thomas and Donald Sterling. You have somewhat managed to carefully and deliberately outdo both of them. Fuck You.” In all, everyone scoffed at Conley being the fourth player of his class (Durant, Horford and Noah) to score a pricy extension
Well, in retrospect, as well all now know, those assessments were far from accurate. But from Conley’s success emerges a trend and observation every short sighted numbskull should acknowledge: Remember, these dudes drafted in the first round are usually 23 when entering their fourth year and eligible for contract re-negotiation worthy of the “fake” max. 23. As in veinte y tres. As in I’m a brooding, outrageously young prospect still enjoying the honeymoon stages of my potential. Of course, professional sports are rooted in the opinion of “SCREW your precious time. You get paid to figure it out. So do it, NOW.” Thus, we laugh when guys who haven’t entirely lived up to their lottery pick worth sign such deals. However, a GM, at least the brilliant one, see’s beyond the immediate future and plans accordingly based on potential. Because the reality is the majority of these guys are neither going to hit their stride nor prime until reaching 25 or 26 (we aren’t even considering the implications of bad coaching/poor managerial work in giving them what they need). That’s why Demar Derozen deserved $40 million. That’s why Tyreke Evans deserved $40 million. That’s why Jeff Green deserved his $40 million. That’s why Jeff Teague will soon be worth $40 million. That’s why Brandon Jennings will inevitably rake in close to such guap (even though I think he might be the exception).
She’s ready to clap back…until realizing the emotional consequences of not reading the books. That’s when Mannie Fresh sobs her tits off to the tune of Boyz 2 Men. Is that not the most outrageous transition in emotions? Bipolar I Disorder on serotonin, norepinephrine or dopamine agonists (for specific receptors, of course…shout out to all my neuroscientists!), bruh! Either she’s out of this world brilliant and made for Broadway or she’s dead serious and believes she lives in a modern day age of chivalry, filled with ebonics, tall tee’s from Footlocker, nappy afro’s (braid it up), and not so well-kept emotional issues. THIS bitch done lost her GOT damn mind over Da Red Wedding!
Our guys from the Chi with a coolin’, summer day banger. Only time will tell as to when these dudes get put on. All a matter of consistency in terms of production (Don’t get it twisted, the production on “Chii So Chill” is bananas). The lyrical versatility, persona and sound are all there (I still can’t get enough of Sin’s ingenuity and Mic V’s resemblance to Sir Michael Rocks). In fact, all three are of a quality that should warrant the undivided attention of the industry. A beat or two from swung from Boston’s own American Antagonist? Do I smell extraordinary fire?! I think so. #HitEm
