Truly bad ass as it gets. Here’s a terse, personalized narration of my Shabazz Napier experience: From squaring off at Brandeis University as 8th graders (You had braids/glasses/were a smudge over five feet, Matthew Boden was your YABC backcourt running mate, I looked like the infinitely more whack, unkept 13 year-old version of Steve Nash circa ’08 and my budgeted Cambridge Family YMCA travel program lost to ya’ll by 12 in the ‘Chip), to watching you nail ten to twelve jaw dropping 30 foot bombs per game at Eastern Invitational Top 100 clinics courtesy of Boston University, to straight shitting in BNBL summer league games, to watching you battle the Mission Hill Legend and former Detroit Piston formally known as Will Blaylock, to the White House, to 16.4 points/7.3 rebounds/5.6 assists/50% from the field/60% from deep. From the perspective of a Cambridge resident who can lay claim to having seen each and every step of Napier’s surreal come up, there’s only one way to describe the little man’s messiah of Boston: Cold Blooded.
Who knows where Shabazz Napier’s draft day might take him. Does his Kemba Walker-esque “it” gene and continuing to marvel in winning/such insane efficiency place him just outside the top 15? Does his lack of superb athleticism and inability to consistently “blow by” relegate this “irrationally confident” warrior (as the term for sub six foot high volume scorers usually goes) to the second round? Couldn’t tell you. All I know is you’d be damned not take on a wildly efficient, far from turnover prone, creatively brilliant ball-handling, fiery competitor hailing from the City of Champions who will always have the ability bang out any look in the vicinity of 30 feet. Minimizing his weaknesses on the defensive end? The occasional forced risky pass? Dominating the ball for long stretches en route to taking ill-advised shots? Ain’t nothing but a thing. Mark my words: Shabazz Napier is a perennial pro. Don Dada of the Day indeed #HitEm
P.S. How good could Florida be come tournament time? Kasey Hill back in action as a fledgling yet more than serviceable back to up to Scotty Wilbekin, Chris Walker–the high flying 6-foot-10, 210-pound potential lottery pick based on rebounding and shot blocking alone from Bonifay–will foreseeably be off his academically ineligible, on-line class game and back in action come December 10th. Tough.
If you’re still hungover from a reckless Thanksgiving eve, still shitting out stuffing and pumpkin pie from four days ago, still mourning the loss of everyone’s favorite street racer (R.I.P. Paul Walker) and look and feel like pure fecal matter, you’re in the right place. After a one week hiatus, washed up Monday is officially back in action. And i’d venture to say most of us need it more than ever…Time to see who sucks more than us at the moment….
What’s more, the squads injury report is almost as long and star-studded as the MLB’s doping list–Deron Williams’ ankle is taking longer than expected to heal, supposed super-subs Jason Terry and Andrei Kirlenko finger’s still hurt, and as of today Paul Pierce will be joining the sittin’ out club for the next 2-4 weeks.
And most embarrassingly of all, the team took to twitter today to advertise their logical fifth option as a viable all-star candidate…
Yeah..so…Let’s not and say we did. There is virtually no argument for this baby-soft string bean to earn a front court spot among the East’s elite. On top of the fact there are tons of better players than him, any “all-star” would undoubtedly be able to help this sorry bunch to a better record than what they’re currently sporting. On the bright side for the BK boys, it’s nearly impossible they’ll miss the post-season considering the current state of their conference, and they still ain’t the worst NBA team in New York. #JamesDolan
Good luck proving that one in court, Herbie. The Grand Theft Auto series will always be better than you. Congratulations on taking home the first “suck our ass” of the week. Suck my ass, Lindsey Lohan.
To be honest, i’d suck yours…
Lastly, as Paul Walker makes his untimely and tragic ascent up to Thugz Mansion, the Fast and the Furious franchise ought to follow suit.
Paul Walker is the “Fast and the Furious.” We all saw what happened when Mike Winchell went to Tokyo without him. Simply didn’t work. One of those “just,no” type of things. The series is currently in the process of filming their 583rd installment “Fast 7,” but will have to make some major changes to the script without its backbone; Brian O’Connor. I say scrap it. Fly high Paul Walker, Fuck you Vin Diesel, Goodbye Fast and Furious. #HitEm
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.
I’d have preferred 41 on 16 of 19 from Bruesewitz. Bruesewitz was the tits. Kaminsky has the worst forehead acne game in college basketball. Bruesewitz is also undoubtedly a Rich Homie Quan “Party” type of guy. I feel it in my plums
Nonetheless, bring on the Keith Van Horn player comparisons…VAN HORN.
3.) Did the Chaplain of Georgia Tech Football Just Become the Nation’s Oldest Superfan?
On another brief note, Marcus Smart might be the most mature–both physically and psychologically–19 year old we’ve ever seen. Arguably just as all encompassing on both ends as the King of the Kids himself, a poise on par with Jabari’s, athleticism and frame to guard three (possibly four because he’s such a warrior) positions, insanely savvy in making split second decisions when taking on secondary defenders, STUPID ball-handling skills, THE LEADERSHIP! AH, THE LEADERSHIP! I wish I could find the article, but Jay Bilas mentioned something last night along the lines of Smart having such wisdom beyond his years that he’ll host a players only opponent scout at his apartment; the players will first scout an opponent, write up their own report, then they’ll convene with the staff and democratically discuss game plan. Marcus Smart initiates all of that. Straight up some unheralded, team building type shit.
Oh, how could I forget: The man-child has come more than full circle in understanding that an extra, “unnecessary” year of school ain’t just about developing a jump shot to deter skeptical scouts. It’s about genuinely learning how to micromanage one’s brand upon becoming a CEO with not only a multi-million dollar lottery pick scaled contract and a shot at upwards $50 to $80 million in re-negotiated salary entering his fourth season (i.e what Paul George just reaped the benefits of); AND expectations powerful enough to turn a seven foot ginger into a pill-poppin’ vagrant. Career transition, kids. Learn it, live it, love it. Because everyone you’ll more or less meet in the world of sports representation is a schemer entirely disinterested with one’s post-sport production off the floor and sounding like this will make you much more money in endorsements. He goes first, he goes sixth, who gives a shit. Kid’s gonna make a lot of money.
P.S. Is this not one of the more impressive workouts you’ve ever seen? Marcus Smart: You machine, you.
5.) My Pick for Who “Unexpectedly” Sneaks into the Lottery
Kaleb Tarczewski. I hate to keep sounding cliche and saying I haven’t seen this or I haven’t seen that. But I really have never seen a legit seven footer look that physically imposing at the collegiate level. Moves and plays off the ball beautifully, decent interior passer, defends as he should, efficient with his touches, skill set has ceiling of improvement for days. I love Steven Adams. And I think Kaleb is of the same crop of prospect, but slightly better. Because he’s from New Hampshire.
Quick throwback: First half highlights of Tarczewski doing his thing in the NEPSAC Class B championship against Nerlens Noel, Wayne Selden and Georges Niang.
Here’s evidence of my attendance. Below is my reaction post a Nerlens Noel tip slam on Alex Murphy of Duke’s head. I’m in the grey hoodie and wylin’. Standing next to me is Erik. Dude’s an absolute cinder block. HOLLER!
P.S. I’m dying to throw a Big Country Bryant Reeves in the Kaleb Tarczewski conversation, but I simply can’t because Kaleb Tarczewski will never touch Bryant Reeves with regards to buzz cut-flat top, clean skin (Tarczewski needs Accutane…now), first three years of NBA production, and mid-play facial expressions.
A tale of peanuts, Ginger Ale and Baby Back Ribs in excess. God dammit, Bryant. Why’d you have to get so heavy and have all those back problems after signing to $65 million over five years R.I.P. BIG COUNTRY!
Can someone please tell me what Big Country was trying to get across with “Big Country”? That song makes absolutely no fucking sense.
While I normally use writing as a means of taking an enormous figurative dump on a given situation, as there is no shortage of asinine occurrences in this mad world–many of which benefit from a little commentary–I feel it is also important to recognize goodness when it comes out to dance. Despite my entirely realistic(some may call it pessimistic) attitude that there is far more shit than sunshine around us, I still hope for better. An example of which presented itself today as one of my favorite professional athletes hung it up once and for all.
Where–barring a quick bout with excessive bottle poppin’– he had a pretty successful five year career. However, he has officially called it quits at age 28, and is taking his talents to the Chicago Fire Department, for which he will begin training next month. When asked why, here’s what this hard-nosed american gangster had to say:
Probably the coolest/most venerable statement of the year. Empathetic philanthropist. Walking testament to true grit. Appreciative Hard Worker. Football Player. Boxer. Firemen. Such an ideal American.I love this dude. Ladies love him more.
Long hair, one for seven from the strike through his first two games, don’t care. Anyone who shoots under hand free throws, has the wherewithal to say to themselves, “middle fingers up to looking like a complete dumbass, this is cooler than you and you know it,” was a state champion in Badminton, enjoys slack lining and has some game to back it up deserves Don Dada of the Day honors. No, really, the bro of all bros was the nicest of the nice at Badminton—which is bar none the whitest accolade I’ve ever heard—and has length (#pause), pep in his step back dribble, and can stroke it (#pause). Looking forward to his inevitable transfer to The U. As long as you don’t lip-synch “Mean” by Taylor Swift ever again, then we’re cool. Great song. Just don’t ever do that again….ever. Pinkies up, Don Dada Canyon
In honor of feeling like I just spent 12 rounds opposite Mike Tyson in a boxing ring after lobotomizing myself with an eclectic and distastefully excessive assortment of mind-altering substances this past weekend,while recognizing this sensation as something not too foreign at all, I have decided to begin a weekly column that will hopefully take a bit of the edge off of the dreadful, depleted drudgery called Monday. Considering we all currently look and feel as if we took 10 years off our lives in the past 48 hours, I thought it would be nice to briefly step away from the headache, the what/who-the-fuck-did-i-do-this-weekend internal dialogue, all other forms of self-loathing and any other Monday symptoms, to laugh at some jabroni’s in even worse positions. So without further ado, welcome to Washed Up Monday’s, where we find pleasure in other people’s pain.
First up, we’ve got my boy Rud the Stud aka THE super senior looking far more athletic than former Pro-Bowl Tight End Jeremy Shockey. Dude looks like shit.
On top of being alarmingly more reminiscent of fat-headed thespian Alec Baldwin than his former self, this picture was taken at the glorified Bat Mitzvah otherwise known as Wall on a Friday, where J-Bone was bumpin-n-grindin’ on 19 year old UM chicks after his eight-month marriage ended in sour prenuptial debauchery.
And then there’s this maniacal selfie from three weeks ago:
12 to 15 projected first round picks, 70 executives and NBA scouts, looming chatter of the next infinitely more athletic Zach Randolph, Carmelo Anthony and God-Only-Knows-What-Type-of-Animal-Andrew-Wiggins-Could-Be, the greatest of Final Four fantasy a shit-sniffing cartel using tax-exempt status and other immoral justifications of amateurism to maximize gaudy championship revenues could ever ask for; on Middle American soil. Not Hawaii, not Alaska, not the fucking Bahamas. It was A W E S O M E. How could you ever forget The Championships Classic? Three to-be players of a generation surrounded by 10 other guys who BALL, heart and soul fully on the line, socking expectations in the craw of those who ever proved doubtful (remember when an overwhelming majority hopped off the Jabari Parker bandwagon last year when his foot was injured, and his numbers plummeted and his weight allegedly soared?), advising us all to place NFL football or any various NBA mini-drama that has thankfully sparked a regular season renaissance on the back burner of interest. Because basketball, in its most pure form, is can’t miss…in early November. I’m not missing a single Duke, Kansas or Kentucky game for the life of me.
Not the Best Freshman, The Best Player
Sure Kansas got the dub and Andrew Wiggins post intermission left Chicago in a profound surge of brilliance most notably highlighted by a one dribble, step back pull up 18 footer from the right baseline over the outstretched arms of Amile Jefferson (my GOD if he can consistently hit that). But while Wiggins may have impressed with regards to what his inner boundless superstar might look like once the crazily intriguing component parts resolve themselves into a basketball player who’s poise can help pace his fast twitch (FAST, FAST, FAST all the time every time), Jabari Parker was King of Das Kids: S P E C I A L. Two goliath’s for prospects. Two separate ends of the in-the-making superstar spectrum. Polished, stoic, calm in space vs. enigmatic, fledgling, lithe yet twitch. Jabari reigned supreme.
The takeaways are endless: picture perfect release, devastating face-up game, to the rack whenever, the poise of a graduate student, head-fakes and jab-steps and dribble pull-ups starkly resembling that of Carmelo Anthony sans the cornrows (unfortunately), savant-like recognition of how to use his strength and versatility mid air. Oh, actually, wait, here’s one takeaway I’ll marinate on in some length for the sake of both no brainer first overall pick and, regrettably, my Celtics fandom—Regrettably meaning I’ll be foreshadowing my inevitable state of depression when the Utah Mormons, not the Boston Celtics, fittingly select Jabari Parker with the number one overall pick (STOP WINNING!): What does this kid’s ceiling look like when he’s NBA fit? Take off the baby fat, add the inevitable ten to twenty of muscle to an already 235 pounds at a legitimate 6’8 who can guard all five positions and play four. All-encompassing skill set plus mentally built for the most insane of limelight plus those physical tools equals bonafide number one pick. Scouts eye falls on potential; an intangible Wiggins wins, but not by a landslide. As far as I’m concerned, ain’t no saying no to Jabari.
So as the rapture of $180 million from Adidas and transcendent pre-season accolades weathers and we’re unfortunately forced to move on from what might be the only time these two collide as amateur athletes, a nation has re-realized the following: Jabari Parker was on the cover of a certain national magazine, tabbed “the best high school player since LeBron James.” Jabari Parker was the USA Basketball male athlete of the year. Jabari Parker was the Gatorade national player of the year. Jabari Parker most coveted recruit, the center of breathless anxiety at college campuses across the country. Jabari Parker is THE BEST.
Go get ‘em, Andrew. You got some chasing to do.
Other Brief Insights:
A.) We’ll consider last night Jabari Parker’s first collegiate game. That being said, Parker was just two rebounds shy of replicating Carmelo Anthony’s EXACT opening night stat-line. 27 and 11 for ‘Melo against Calipari’s Memphis Tigers in 2002. 27 and 9 for Parker.
B.) Frank Mason (Kansas’ freshman back up point guard and former back court running mate of current Miami Hurricane stud, Deandre Burnett, at Massanutten Military Academy) is my DOG.
C.) Rodney Hood will both finish top-3 in scoring in the ACC and enter the conversation of top-15 pick come the seasons finish. The fourth and undoubtedly most random transfer in Coach K’s tenure is C O L D.
D.) The craziest afterthought(s) of last night: Andre Dawkins, Duke’s long ball sniper who red shirted last year due to lingering grief of his sister’s passing, didn’t play a minute last night; 42% from deep as a sophomore, 39% as a Junior. And has Coach K ever had the luxury of 6th man much like Rasheed Sulaimon? SULIAMON! SARUMAN!
E.) Kansas’ Joel Embiid is the best passing seven footer I’ve ever seen…for only having played three years of organized ball. Dude loved volleyball. The ceiling on this kid is near unconscionable.
F.) Anyone who nabs Adreian Payne with the 25th to 30th overall pick has found themselves a perennial pro who can both guard and stretch (offensively) all five positions. I professed my love last March. Read up.
G.) Michigan State’s Gary Harris is the less physically imposing Bradley Beal.
Would we all have preferred the interview not be conducted under the most biased, face saving circumstances possible (according to Deadspin, Jay Glazer has given Incognito MMA training and has a personal and presumed business relationship with all 23 of his monstrous tribal tattoos)? Sure. Why not. Brutal, objective journalism without clearcut, predetermined questions and responses equals Richie Incognito hog tying Jay Glazer buck naked to a locker room floor all while giggling and repeatedly slapping his ass (shout out to Anthony Davis, who might be killin’ it through six games, but is undoubtedly a homosexual).
Either way, regardless of staged, purposefully empathetic theatrics, I’m fully aware that 6’3, 320 pound Biff Tannen was never a full blown racist. Is he the universe’s meanest, biggest, baddest douche/retard who razzed his teammate into psychiatric disorder through inexplicably wrongful, vile bigotry? Yes, yes he is. Racist? Well, if the black guys aren’t in a flame, then I guess the “half n****r” ain’t nothing but a thing; An “honorary black man” they say. Which is precisely why a.) professional football is only to be interpreted as a microcosm of everything bat shit fucking insane about 250 plus pound men (not society) and b.) when this out-of-proportion and increasingly tiresome story eventually blows over and yields way to another instance of poor behavior in professional sports, the girthy meatball will still have a job. Shit, I’m even baffled at how I’ve let the “half n****r” go. But when his intentions are to clearly unearth the oh-so coveted mean streak in his both his teammate and “friend” that has defined the position since the beginning of time, the term is more meathead fuckery than full blown racist.
Meanwhile Mr. I Live in Under a Roof of Learned, Over Protective Lawyers will be finger painting at a psychological rehab facility 15 miles outside of Salt Lake City pondering why he never kept things in house…like a man. Grow a pair, dude. #HitEm