Melancholy Triumph

A perfect microcosm for this series: Baron bringing it and Dirk getting punked.

Before the internets, the proliferation of new media, and the 24-hour news-industrial complex allowed people like me to memorize the names and descriptions of high-school juniors who may one day deign to enroll at a school like Michigan to play football or basketball, there was Baron Davis, arguably among the last of the super recruits before there really were super recruits.

Of course, Davis was neither the first nor the last of the media-heralded freshmen: witness Lew Alcindor and Kevin Durant. However, there was something special about Davis, who entered college at a time that predated Carmelo Anthony but after the paradigm had shifted and people began to reasonably assume that a freshman could substantially change the course of college basketball. Initiated by the spread of televised Midnight Madness events and thanks to a growing focus on recruiting, the acknowledgment that talent could sometimes trump experience, and the nascent hype machine that we now all know so well, Davis was among the notable whose reputations preceded them as contemporary legend. I speak from experience, because I was one of many who knew Davis was the truth upon seeing him play only a few times, the highlights verifying the projections.

But again, he wasn't any old precocious baller. He was, rather, a phenomenon, reputed to embody the evolution of the point guard. Equipped with an excellent handle, the ability to jump out of the gym, speed that made him nearly unguardable, and even a jump shot, Baron Davis, I was told, could do it all. Audacious but gifted, and capable of dropping dimes, hitting from anywhere, and absorbing contact while finishing, he was the best possible version of the point guard Stephon Marbury always should have been. And he wasn't even that tall--he was just that good. He even had the kind of name that lent itself to promotion and cultural transcendence. A kid who loved John Wooden but held against UCLA the fact that the O'Bannon-era teams weren't especially likable, I was even a little scared of Davis, mostly because I envied that UCLA, and not a Michigan or UConn or UNC, had secured the services of a basketball Jesus.

Baron Davis was supposed to change the game.

But as we all now sadly know, the game changed him. Far from the messianic figure he was slated to become, Davis's career has amounted to little more than periodic but fleeting sensational displays of athleticism strewn across an otherwise blank canvas of the pedestrian. There have been too many losses and too many nights shooting 7-23 with 8 turnovers to allow the soaring dunks and determined jumpers to stand as a clear legacy. He operates with a seductive flair that makes his triumphs even greater, but they are unfortunately not enough. Of course, that Davis is not what many thought he might be owes largely to injuries that have derailed so many seasons. The knees, the back--still not even thirty-years-old, Baron Davis is an old man who was robbed of a prime. It is a testament to his enduring preternatural ability that he can continue to summon so much esteem and command so much good will among fans of my ilk.

Davis will surely go down as the sort of player that had to be seen to be properly appreciated, because the stats and the records won't ever present an accurate portrait. And when searching for a snapshot of his greatness, last night's Game Four against Dallas would be sufficient. It was a grand display of bittersweet basketball. For every resilient pull-up, confident drive, and exhilarating moment, there was the sorrowful understanding that what was taking place was enhanced by its rarity. There was also the nagging concern that the next play could always result in a crippling injury. As great as Davis is when driving to the rim and banging inside, how can any fan not worry that a knee will get tweaked or his back will act up? To root for Baron Davis is to experience the pangs of mixed emotion.

Davis, himself, seems to exude this mournful realism. Whether it is the beard that makes him look somewhat grizzled, the knowing eyes that always seem to grasp much of what is also unsaid, or the expressions of moderated enthusiasm, Baron appears as though he's always participating in the collective sadness that his fans cannot shed while assessing him and watching him work. There is a tragic element to his persona ever more pronounced as he succeeds, and he likely knows it. That lends an urgency to his and to the Warriors' cause; we can't squander this wonderful moment because who knows if we will see it again.

Assorted Notes
- The Dallas-Golden State series feels like an extended opening weekend in the NCAA Tournament. The favorite plays a more structured, traditional style; has the marquee player; has great size; has a roster of players with defined roles and types; and would be winning if the other team would just stop being so difficult and "play the right way." The underdog, meanwhile, plays a looser niche style; has the overlooked player with great ability; has limited size; has a roster of players who are largely interchangeable; and has the audacity to think that it can impose its will on the favorite. Were it not somewhat insulting and backwards to compare 12 of the 350 best basketball players in the world to a team like Virginia Commonwealth, we might call the Warriors the best college team ever. They don't even run plays; they just penetrate and share the ball. It might really be more apt to say that the Warriors would likely win the Rucker.

- Here's who has played like a real MVP in the playoffs: Kobe; Duncan; Nash; McGrady; Kidd; Davis. Here's who hasn't: Dirk Nowitzki. So far, he's not even the best player on his team, and he is so woefully ill-equipped to deal with players who can run, jump, and be resourceful like the guys on the Warriors. In Game Four, alone, Dirk seemed to be in the picture, hopelessly flailing, every time that Golden State got a second-chance basket, loose ball, or layup. This has been embarrassing.

- In the rush to anoint Steve Nash, people seem to have forgotten that Jason Kidd remains the best point guard since Magic Johnson. I believe that Nate has my back on this.

- When Matt Barnes hit that big three on Sunday night, and Stephen Jackson put him under his arm and started muttering, what do you think he said? "Now you only owe me ten cigarettes"? It can only be described as "horribly unfair" that Chappelle Show never had Charlie Murphy play Jackson is some kind of skit.

- Um, Tracy McGrady needs to go to the basket more often. Talk about a guy for whom a back injury is an omnipresent concern...

- I can't imagine that Miami losing to Chicago was all that surprising for anyone who's followed the Lig during the past few months. Perhaps the sweep was unexpected, but are people really shocked that the Bulls won, notwithstanding the media's obsession with last year's champion losing? Chicago is much deeper, has the front line needed to defend Shaq, and got to play against a hobbled Dwyane Wade. Plus, Miami had looked old and hurt and tired too often this year. I n November thought that the Heat would return to the Finals because a healthy Dwyane can't be stopped when he brings his referee posse with him. But he wasn't healthy.

- Watching the Nuggets is not fun. I try and I try, but I can't get into them. Despite certain aesthetic elements that are enticing, just knowing that the team is again going nowhere thanks to the usual problems makes it terribly boring to me. And that Carmelo basically only wants to shoot is disappointing.