Alan Anderson hammers one off of a right wing rip-and-go, LA’s lead cut to one, Brooklyn fouls Jodie Meeks, everyone’s shlepping to the other end of the floor, and, boom, rain dance. Coach Kidd clearly telling Tyshawn Taylor to “hit me.” #HitEm with the no look, b!
Back lash coming his way? Of course. My opinion? I’m all for Gamesmanship and Grade A sideline swindling. Hilarious. Soda-Gate: Straight out of Sweet Lou Dunbar’s playbook. Tenured player-coach for the Harlem Globetrotters. Fuckin’ right, baby. Excuse me as I wipe my ass, then kiss my hand, then blow it in your face. Hi, haters.
And here’s Kobe defending himself in an interview with Yahoo Sports by pointing out just how ridiculous it is that the NBA’s collective bargaining agreement is designed to ensure that players like him are always underpaid:
“Most of us have aspirations for being businessmen when our playing careers are over. But that starts now. You have to be able to wear both hats. You can’t sit up there and say, ‘Well, I’m going to take substantially less because there’s public pressure, because all of a sudden, if you don’t take less, you don’t give a crap about winning. That’s total bullshit. I’m very fortunate to be with an organization that understands how to take care of its players, and put a great team out on the floor. They’ve figured out how to do both. Most players in this league don’t have that. They get stuck in a predicament – probably intentionally done by the teams – to force them to take less money. Meanwhile, the value of the organization goes through the roof off the backs of their quote, unquote selfless players. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
In dissecting the argument only from the perspectives of the sports industry–the maniacal, gluttonous, disloyal, unethical $200 billion a year sports industry–and the confounding nature of the NBA’s collective bargaining agreement, I’m locked in with Kobe Bryant. No shit you should theoretically feel behooved to suck the industry for all its worth; retirement from professional sports has no correlation to the life cycle of any other profession in this universe. No shit a Kobe Bryant or a Lebron James or a Kevin Durant or a Paul George should enjoy the fruits of an uncapped MLB-scaled salary. More than three fourths of the world could neither tell you what Joey Votto looks like nor who the fuck Joey Votto is and he’s signed to a deal worth upwards $263 million over 13 years. Prince Fielder gets paid $168 million over the next seven years to be borderline fat, hit bombs, underachieve in the post season and do this
While Lebron sacrifices salary for the betterment of a championship, plays fugazi to a 20 to 22 million dollar price tag for the world’s best athlete, transcends NBA legend, expands both the Miami Heat and the NBA’s brand 100 fold, and makes all Celtic faithful haze themselves with Svedka and Cheese Boy at the sight of 45 points, 15 boards and 6 assists.
Jermaine finished his Celtics career as the team’s least popular player, internally, since Vin Baker. The general feeling is, “He stole money from us.” Just dumping O’Neal from the trainer’s room so the players didn’t have to disgustedly look at him anymore and wonder things like, “Wait a second, isn’t his LEFT wrist the wrist that’s hurt? He can’t play with that? Isn’t he right-handed? He’s really that big of a pussy?” was probably worth a few extra wins already. It’s hard to understand why one of the league’s most thoughtful players — a real warrior once upon a time — felt good about finishing his career with his last set of teammates and coaches believing he was something of a fraud. Just know that, on the slight chance that this Celtics team wins a title or comes close, Jermaine shouldn’t expect a full playoff share.
I applaud Jermaine for a.) having ranked amongst my top five favorite bigs of all childhood, b.) sporting some of the more revered cornrows of the early millennium, c.) unsurprisingly laying considerable groundwork for “Most-Impactful-Signee-at-the-Veteran’s-Minimum” (as expected because Jermaine O’Neal spent several summer weeks in Germany doping his ass off), and d.) invoking abstract comparisons between the 2013-14 Warriors and the 2004 Pacers of Malice at the Palace old—I’ll, however, take Ron Artest pre-collosal 86 game suspension/pre-requesting a month off of basketball to pursue a career as the artist formally known as Schizophrenic Brian McKnight over Andre Iguodala all day every day, and those stating otherwise do not remember Ron Artest of 2004 as one of the more debatable figments of what could-have-been borderline superstar in NBA history; I’ll also take Jamaal Tinsely over Steph Curry because he tossed dimes and apparently drank more vodka than water. Nonetheless, I’m a Celtic. And anyone who fucks with this archaic circle of champions, American Heroes and James Posey’s is an inexcusable loser. A generous $12 million over two years to play in the house that Red, Bill and Bird built and you go from training camp MVP to Vin Baker depths of character depreciation to modeled, storied veteran on a contender basking in character revelation FOUR YEARS LATER? Sans the booze? Painfully nostalgic loss for words.
I’m not here to debate whether any 2010 through 2012 Celtics team was a fully engaged Jermaine O’Neal away from turning the single most catastrophic move in the Garnett-Pierce-Allen era into a plight of brilliance; Regardless of who was on the floor on June 7th, 2012, there was never stopping Lebron’s transcendency. I’m just here to say such fraudulence made an ass of myself, yourself, the city of Boston and Ryan Hollins; watching Doc Rivers–who stated during 2012′s run that he’d take anything 6’6 and above as long as that 6’6 could stay on the floor–have no other choice to but to employ the most inept reserve in playoff history for eight minute stints fucked my shit up and continues to fuck my shit up. Grit and balls are the most celestial substances of this city, capable of turning designated “bums” into the real life embodiment of how hard work prevails upon those who work hard. Jermaine O’Neal never “sucked it up and fought the fight,” thus shitting on the very concept. And for that, I award you no points.
If Bill Simmons did in fact never actually have the Celtic locker room scoop on such underlying attitudes, then I thoroughly apologize. But until that falsified day, in the most relevant of hollywood allusions, I’m Sargent Elias and you, Jermaine O’Neal,are my Sargent Barnes. Shot through the heart, and Charlie Sheen is too late.
P.S. If I was to work for one these ho-hum Celtics blogs and I had a media pass for March 5th, I’d appropriately probe Jermaine O’Neal for all he’s worth. Even at the expense of having my nose shoved in.
“If you want to get to the bottom of something, just look someone in they eye and see how they speak to you”
I want nothing more than to have the slightest of connections to the first American finalist in the history of “Arabs Got Talent.” So I’m going out on a whim here and assuming there’s an 87% chance this chick was in my AP Calculus class at Rindge & Latin back in ’08. Meaning there’s an 87% chance I’m a bold face fucking liar. Jennifer Grout: Turning up in the Middle East, strumming the SHIT out of her Oud and taking god damn names. Chick apparently can’t even speak Arabic; only sings it, and has the accent of a vet in the game. Doesn’t get much more “Cambridge” (i.e. bizarre) than that. Least surprising thing ever.
P.S. Hey, Jenny, how about a collaboration? You know, the second coming of Yo Gotti (me) meets Umm Kulthum. Match made in recording heaven…I’M THAT NICE!
P.S.S. To the haters accusing Grout of faking her American biography…
From Switzerland, to Worcester Academy (shout out Massachusetts and Rene Castro), to Dunk City, to Division II Chaminade, to drilling that sucker in Isaiah Austin’s gargantuan ear holes, to coming up just one point shy of Adam Morrison’s Maui Invitational scoring record.
Brand Management 101: What do you do when your “ass be hungover from clubbing every night during the playoffs” (thanks, Rihanna) and you shoot 34% from the field over eight career defining games, become just the third player in league history to attempt at least 65 three-pointers during one postseason and shoot below 27.5 percent from behind the arc/below 73 percent from the free-throw stripe, some asshole named Glen says, “Hey, you know what, let’s award this guy five plus million dollars a year witha $6.4 million player option in year three, then sign his shit ass brother for the sake of entourage and ratchet celebration post erratic pull up jumper to a deal worth approximately $200,000 more than what Chandler Parsons has ever made in any year with Rockets in it’s third year; Even though he tainted all that is holy about New York City basketball by prioritizing bottle popping with an ex member of Gorilla Unit named Lloyd Banks who perplexingly enough changed his voice (man, do I miss Lloyd Banks voice of 2004 old)” and you don’t extend volatile chuckers who thrive off of connecting on bullshit? Simple. You turn down. For what? For the sake of making some extra change from a Foot Locker commercial shallowly depicting character revelation in the most hilarious of fashion: “Hey, I’m JR Smith, and I’m not here just to eat 18 edibles a day and chuck up low percentage bullshit looks from 27 feet. I’m here to eat 18 edibles a day, chuck up bullshit from 27 feet and abide by 9 PM curfew. Awesome. Salute, JR Smith and salute failing to disclose any need for scar tissue removal from a right knee meniscus tear before collecting his check as means of protecting contract negotiations. Grade A swindling.
Yup, Rodney Stucky using his uncanny, bully ball prowess to shove transition layups down Alan Anderson’s throat (#Pause) and chucking up eight buckets of absolute bunk to catapult Brooklyn into further dismay. Classic “this-can’t-be-happening-to-$180M.” Am I worried about 3 and 10? Ehh, I mean, I’m worried about things like Reggie Evans biting a Josh Harrellson ball fake from 27 feet en route to Josh Harrellson one dribbling kicking to Rodney Stuckey for a corner three and Josh Harrelson straight line driving all over Mirza Teletovic’s fat nose from the top of the circle because its fucking JOSH HARRELLSON. I’m also worried about Paul Pierce’s last, undesired years of playing for a city he neither knows nor likes having minimal post season relevance and Jason Kidd straight fretting on some Alicia Silverstone, Clueless type shit. But The Nets, despite the statistics saying otherwise, are teetering on alright. Sure, $180 million gets a real kick in the ass if Deron Williams can’t stay healthy. Nonetheless, you can’t judge Brooklyn and the depressingly ineffective production from two grumpy old men in their entirety until we see Brook Lopez, Deron Williams and Andrei Kirilenko playing at length. Can’t do it. For now, let all optimism point towards their six through ten men. That bench and that BLATCHE have been ballin’.
Shout out Mason Plumlee and his baby Golden Retriever. All white everything.
My Giant featuring George Muresan and Billy Crystal Matt Geiger
Hey, Dell Curry
Fly ball up for grabs, Geiger’s gettin’ it
What’s a personalized version of the Taj Mahal for near half your $44 million in career earnings worth to Matt Geiger? Well, a reappraisal fee of $8 million and being Matt Geiger. What I’d do to tailgate with Matt Geiger.
35/5/4/5/2 in 47 minutes for PG-13, a GUTSY 30 and 18 from Carmelo (there arguably might not be anything better in basketball than watching Carmelo Anthony bully everyone within 13 feet and undeservedly go to the foul line 10 times less than he actually should). Rocks with it. And you know what? I loved the Knicks tonight. Loved them. Yea, Pablo Prigioni mindlessly turning the ball over like an ass hat and Metta World Peace doing things like driving David West downhill with absolutely no open lane line, having his shit punched, then hammering David West 97 feet away from the basket, then sending him to the strike because his team is in the penalty and the artist formerly known as Ron Artest is a clinically diagnosed psychopath stunk. But playing their god damn ass off and losing in such hard fought fashion against the NBA’s best means something. Especially when James Dolan is just 10 buckets surrendered in transition post front rim miss by JR “I Let Everyone Know I’m Trying By Instagram-ing a Salad” Smith away from shitting in a Brother Jimmy’s urinal.
Oh, I also hate Beno Udrih. 80% guy indeed. But his name is infinitely more terrible than Bostjan Nachbar, he’s only 31 and has game of a 38 year-old, immobile, seasoned vet who you couldn’t pay me to watch for 82 games and beyond, and drills utter bullshit in the most momentous of circumstances. Fuckin’ Beno Udrih.
P.S. JR Smith Instagram-ing a salad as means of notifying the public that he’s back grinding three days after sucking in his post-marijuana-smoking debut made my top five Instragrams of the year. We all know JR Smith doesn’t chef up something nice unless he’s super blunted.