Daddy's Home

I emerge from it all without a stain on my shirt.

He's back. Brandt Snedeker, yes. But honestly, I was pretty excited by Woods starting par, bogey, bogey, par and then roaring back with birdie, birdie, birdie, par, eagle, par, birdie. It should be another exciting PGA season, thanks in no small part to the criminally underrated PGA theme music on CBS. Between that, the Tournament music, and the music for college football, CBS obviously knows how to get your juices pumping.

And you know, I get that it is neither unique nor difficult to root for Woods. But how can you not? It's like watching history take a long stroll four days a week. Or, as Beanie rather fittingly put it, "Bear witness to the greatest/Can't beat us, join us...."

- Beanie Sigel ft. Jay-Z, "It's On"

(P.S. If Jay and Beanie made an entire album of songs paced like "It's On" and "Guess Who's Back," dripping in similar pathos, it would own this entire decade.)

Identity Crisis

Don't underestimate how much you enjoy "We Can Get Down."

I am gonna ask for everyone's help today: I'd very much like for this post to be a lot better (and thorough), but I've got this thing called "a job" and it does things to me like "take up all my time and energy." Thus, I am gonna post some abbreviated thoughts and ask that you chime in if you want to add something to the discussion (which, admittedly, is not so original). Anyway...

I grew up convinced of one inalienable truth: The Low End Theory was the greatest album ever made. Say what you will about it, or about the superior merits of other records, but for me, nothing summed up my music experience like Low End. It was the definitive record. I've cherished it since childhood, and it is usually the point from which I start when explaining my taste. It's the apotheosis of "hip-hop" when we use the term in a fashion that is theoretically meant to convey more than just a musical distinction but also a certain nebulous, ethereal state of being. I know the whole thing, I can picture where I was when I listened to certain parts, it's helped me pick up women--you name it. This was not mere faith; it was irrefutable truth.

But then I put Midnight Marauders onto my iPod this week, and it was kind of awesome again. And it made me wonder if perhaps it was better than Low End. And that's set off some troubling internal workings. I am not convinced that it is, but I'd heard others struggle with this before and I always had laughed it off. I've arrived at that moment, though it may be fleeting. I don't think it's a coincidence that this happened the week after Peyton Manning finally beat Tom Brady in the playoffs.

So, not to get all Bol on you, but which do you prefer? And tell me why. (Now, having solicited input, there will be 2 comments. Fucking awesome.)

Also, you should be excited that The Chef is back in the, um, kitchen. (Sorry, that was lame.)

- Raekwon, "My Corner"

Who Want Exploit Mutombo?

Was he excited about the proposed health care tax on singles making more than $7,500?

No time for a real post. Enjoy a fond reminiscence of last night. Oh, and I made that Juelz Nike joint into an mp3. You know, in case you want to throw on a white jumpsuit and stroll around all dramatically.

- Juelz Santana, "Second Coming"

Links of Distinction

Thanks to Robbie (and Ian) for these. Nothing like some Dip Set ignorance and brilliant viral marketing. Seriously, which rappers use technology--especially the internets--better than these dudes? Go get a kufi! And, um, Jim's wearing a purse. Of course. And can likely reference episode and season of Golden Girls. Given them a minute to get going and then sit back and enjoy.





- Your boy is now putting in work on an almost-once-a-week basis over at the Dork Set headquarters. Nothing major, just a little outlet for some culture criticism and hateration.

- Robbie and the weed carrier movement takes another step up.

- The latest Carnival of the NBA (now in its 40th edition!) is up (and fantastic) over at Detroit Bad Boys.

- Peep game: The Hype

- Peep game: The World According to Pooh

- Welcome to the many people who have wandered over to this internet while searching for things like this. I feel your pain.

The Essence of Knick Basketball, and Other Generalizations

Just to make it a true Knicks experience, Nate Robinson gave him an HJ.

- Jason Kapono on Monday night: 9-14 (4-6), 22 points, 5 rebounds, an assist, and a steal. The Knicks lost by 18 to a sub-.500 team without Wade and Shaq. As I was discussing with my father the other day, the Knicks, night in and night out, can be counted on to either make an all-star look like a hall of famer or a Kapono look like an all-star. Want to get your game healthy? Schedule the Knicks. Shit, playing them can probably cure ED.

- Vince Carter in crunch time against the Kings on Monday night: two turnovers in three possessions, totally pedestrian at all other times. And he didn't even get invited to the hangar for the pickup game. Methinks you're witnessing the decline. I also want to object to the isolation basketball upon which the Nets rely in crunch time. No one moves as Vince dribbles with his head down and ultimately hopes to wind up at the rim. This team looks and moves and plays like it's defeated, even when it wins.

- Shoals beat me to this punch, but to offer a different take: what happened to the narrative that was getting crafted during the preseason when the age of LeBron, Dwyane, and Carmelo was upon us, leaving little room for competing plots and few starring roles for even the deserving, like Kobe? We were told that Dwyane was a transcendent champion without true peer, the totality of his skills and persona surpassing all others; that LeBron was making his way to the throne, scheduling crown fittings, dispensing with the need for assistance, and magically making Larry Hughes reliable; and that Melo, the middle child who was neither the accomplished sage nor the fabled prodigy, was ready to go for dolo. Well, Melo came through until he got suspended, as a slighted middle child might just to be difficult and assertive. But Wade's been hurt and his resolve has taken the Heat to the soaring heights of almost-.500 while LeBron, though the numbers are still impressive and the record is good enough, seems almost invisible. It's as though his everyday brilliance has been relegated to the well-written character-development paragraphs that an impatient reader like myself might skip over to get back to the action. I want to see the Suns and the Mavs; the re-emergence of TMac, a wiser fellow both chastened and motivated by the mortality he's met through injury; the Gilbert heroics; the next-level post play of Dwight Howard. Have you ever sat down to read one magazine article and been sucked in by another?

Our enduring images of the NBA, in particular, always come while peering through the lens of the playoffs, so it's entirely possible that in six months, we'll think of this season quite differently, but so far, this story hasn't really taken off. And don't even get me started on the forgotten newjacks crowded out to the periphery (Chris Paul? Never heard of him...) or the story lines that seem nearly contrived, despite their authentic freshness, given how long we've anticipated their arrival (The Maturation of Kobe Bryant). To switch to food imagery, last season felt as though it were a bland melange of flavors that you couldn't ever really savor, a bunch of muted traditionalism. This season feels like the salad bar got a major upgrade and I can't even remember what I wanted when I first wandered over looking for grape leaves.

Music for a Monday: When Kanye Was Much More Likable

It's easy to hate. Unfortunately.

Later this year, Kanye will drop his third album. It will be a big deal--there will be big-name guests; expensive videos; extensive promotions; breathless reviews. The works. And if you're like me, it'll make you ambivalent. You'll be happy to have some new music from a creative dude, you'll delight in the few beats that are just right, and you'll smile as he drops some of his witty punch lines. But you'll also cringe as he sells out for top-40 radio, you'll be annoyed when he whines about how great he is, and you'll want to throw up when the some of the worst songs on the record get held up as masterworks by people with bad taste who don't do much thinking for themselves. You'll sort of resent his success and popularity--as much as you'll like his music, his personality will rub you the wrong way and you'll really dislike how his widespread notoriety will only fuel the worst parts of her persona. It will be a dilemma.

Sadly--again, if you're like me--this will all obscure the Kanye that you first liked. The hungry dude who didn't get respect as an MC; the talented dude who churned out hot beat after hot beat; the charismatic dude who made you laugh and nod as he made jokes and references to your favorite hip-hop. You'll mournfully remember October 2003, when music was stale, everyone was about Speakerboxxx and The Love Below, and some Roc-a-fella producer was putting out mixtapes that were exciting because they sounded different and reassuringly earnest. It will be hard to dwell very long on that memory, though, because it recedes further and further into the recesses, lost amidst the clutter of magazine covers, big-ass sunglasses, half-buttoned shirts, and stunt after stunt.

Listening to his older shit--the unreleased joints, the freestyles--will help you remember though. You'll hear rhymes that made albums; self-deprecating humility; chuckle-inducing wordplay. So file these away for the day of mixed emotions when Kanye, Megastar, swoops in to get the hype machine working overtime. They'll help you make your peace.

- Stand Up (Remix)
- Half Price
- Is That Your Car
- Freestyle (Playa Playa)
- Freestyle (A Million and One Questions)

(P.S. Peep game: Super Negro)
(P.P.S. Great website)

This Blows

Still a dreamboat (no Dip Set)

I don't really want to talk about it, since roughly 25% of my identity is tethered to Peyton Manning failing, but I will say these things:

- When the game was tied at 31, and the Patriots had a third-and-ten, running that crappy draw that hadn't worked since the first quarter was a Schottenheimer-like play call. Settling for a field goal? When your defense hadn't stopped the other team all half? Really?

- Jim Nantz was rooting for the Colts. It could have only been worse had Phil Mickelson lined up alongside Manning in the second half. Note to Jim: We got it; you didn't think Gaffney should have been eligible to catch that touchdown. Your team moved on, and you should have, too. I half expected Nantz to make his own red challenge flag so that he could throw one, too. What a baby.

- I can rarely understand what Phil Simms is saying. It's mostly a steady procession of non-sequiturs and nonsense with the obvious and worthless thrown in for good measure. They ran it because they thought it would work. You think so? You must have been in the NFL.

- Not a good halftime for the CBS crew: "Rex Grossman has been doubting his critics"; "Manning needs to throw it better or else he's gonna have to buy a house in A-Rod's neighborhood"; "People tell stories; numbers don't tell stories." I could go on...

- I guess that if Tom Brady was going to fail, it's of some consolation that the guy who picked him off in the end also went to Michigan.

- It's significant that two black head coaches made have made the Super Bowl, but is that really the headline? Not that both put together great game plans? Or that both had their guys ready to play? I mean, the story is just that they're black? Seems like that sells them short.

- Unrelated: How embarrassing is it for Oakland that the Raiders were told by someone, "You know, making millions a year to coach your NFL team is not enticing enough for me to leave my hundred-thousands-a-year college position coach job." I mean, wow.

I think that the Raiders should turn next season into a reality show meant to let the average armchair critic understand what coaching is like. What do they have to lose? They already stink; the average NFL team could probably win two games a year, at least, without a coach as it is, and the Raiders won just three last season with a coach; the old offensive coordinator prepped for the job by running a bed and breakfast, so whomever winds up on the show will likely not have any worse training; and it would be a ratings smash. Who wouldn't watch that? It would be amazing.

Sunday Sundry

Who would win if you took five of them and had that squad play the adidas team?

College Basketball
- UConn doesn't have it this year. Without a single upperclassman on scholarship, the absence of leadership is staggering, and you saw it yesterday as the team pissed away the game against Indiana in crunch time. What a waste of talent.

- The more he writes, the more I think the Sports Guy just needs to stick to the Red Sox. People aren't already falling over themselves to talk up Kevin Durant? This guy wants to break the news on him? At what point did Simmons stop participating in the world?

- Michigan is 16-4 with its best win coming against Davidson (which is 14-4 and something like 57 in the RPI) or Illinois (14-7, 47in the RPI). It's next seven games (through February 21): @ Wisconsin, @ Indiana, Iowa, @ Ohio State, Minnesota, @ Michigan State, Indiana, @ Illinois. I think that in a month, Michigan will be 18-9 with its best win still being one of the two already mentioned. *Sigh*

- Has anyone who's watched Kansas since the Florida game come away feeling good about potentially picking it to make the Final Four? I feel as though every time I watch this team, it's doing something to make me nervous, win or lose. But what else is new for a Bill Self team? His squads very rarely play in a way that makes you wholly confident in their ability.

- Tyler Hansbrough is the most overrated player in the country. If he's a success in the NBA, it will be a miracle. I can't believe how long it takes him to get the ball from his waist up above his head when he's around the basket. And in traffic, dude gets no lift. He will get owned by NBA big men.

- So far, I'd have no problems if the Big Ten only got three bids in this year's Tournament.

- How can Duke recruit so well and have such a great coach yet always be so shallow? It seems like a 7-man team every year.

- The Big XII is overrated in football (just about every year) and underrated in basketball.

- At no point in yesterday's second half did it feel as though Arizona was really threatening UCLA. And I can't say that I was surprised. Ben Howland is a better coach than Lute Olson, a guy who always seems to be overrated, and Arizona's roster leaves me wanting more. I don't get the hype on Marcus Williams--I don't watch Arizona all the time, but when I see him, I don't see anything all that special.

NBA
- Rasheed Wallace must have an incredible agent. As you can see in the photo above, he remains a key part of Nike's NBA lineup despite the fact that he's reliably inconsistent and has been playing uninspired basketball for more than a year at this point. Rasheed will go down as one of the all time greatest wastes of talent, and perhaps the most notable recent reminder that for all of the athletic gifts, a basketball player has to have the mental and emotional composition if he wants to achieve greatness. And don't get me wrong, I love Roscoe. It's part of why I find him so frustrating.

- I think that this is something I'd like to further develop, but it's occurred to me a few times this week and I'd be interested in some other takes on the idea: Jerry Stackhouse started out his career as a brash scorer who was celebrated for his talent but chastised for his attitude. Antoine Walker endured similar treatment, although his game certainly is not directly comparable. And Jamal Crawford has thus far been judged with similar sentiment--great at what he does, but what he does isn't good enough. Now on the Mavs, Stack is lauded for sublimating his game as a role player. Antoine was the subject of analogous praise when the Heat played well last season. And Crawford seems destined to ultimately only earn true acceptance if he provides scoring on a team that earns the consensus respect of the NBA taste-makers. So my questions are these: Is that fair to them? Is it fair that we only judge a player like Crawford using the almost punitive, binary terms of winning and losing? Is there no intrinsic value to what he contributes? And is it lazy of us, collectively, to ask that a Crawford or a Stackhouse change to fit an accepted mold rather than attempt to innovate and find a sustainable means of winning that maximizes the contributions of this sort of player? Are those talents actually maximized when we ask them to acquiesce to a diminished role?

I'm not sure that I am articulating this properly, but do you see where I'm going?

- I found my joint:

One Argument in Support of Diversity

I think I'm late on this, but nonetheless, follow this link...and then watch the video:

The testimonials and the doll test are compelling arguments in support of diversity: we need to spend time working and learning and living with people who don't all look alike if we really are going to value each person as an individual, understand each other, and move away from some of the socialized biases we otherwise can't easily escape. This sentiment is not new, without nuance, and far too earnest for a blog that is usually so sarcastic, but it remains an important ideal. And the video is an important reminder that there is always work to be done.

This Will Be Dope

Read more here. I couldn't find the video online yet.

Commercial Showdown

Does anything touch Easterns? Maybe this? (HT: HM)



And, of course, the original realness:

Music for a Monday on a Tueday

I don't know why this thing isn't fully filled in. I didn't make it.

Pressed for time, so just enjoy. Well, except for Joe Scudda, who blows.

- Pete Rock ft. Styles P and Sheek Louch - "914"

- DJ Babu, Little Brother, and Joe Dudda, "Fan Mail"

The Lost Legacy of the Lumbering Lords

Game recognize game

I am not in possession of great basketball skills. My handle is limited. My jump shot is ugly. My hops are closer to Oakley's than Amare's. And at six feet, I only tower above short men. But I'm a good teammate because I know the game, and I love being a dependable role player. I box out like it's a drill. I see the floor. I take pride in my defense. I know where to go and when to get there. And nothing makes me feel better than throwing a good pass. Not a fancy pass, but a good one--a pass that gets my team a bucket. Though I revile Brown DMC, the messes he made in Detroit and New York, and even the tedious weight that came with his most famous catch phrase, I can't deny its veracity: there is a fulfilling joy that comes with playing the right way.

Playing the right way entails many things, of course, but I've found there to be at least one staple, one inalienable basketball truth about my game: Not a single thing stacks up to a perfect entry pass into the post. It's the apotheosis of basketball.

In some ways, this certainty is a tangential relative of my defense of style. Despite all of the acrobatic finishes authored by members of the Pantheon of Aerial Kings; all of the admirable touch passes handed out by Jason Kidd; all of the orchestrated beauty of a Magic-led fast-break ballet; all of the Illadelph palmed-ball creativity of Dr. J and even George McGinnis; all of the Larry Bird jump-shot efficiency; all of the nearly obnoxious follow through that Reggie Miller used to hit so many daggers; despite all of this, my favorite indelible basketball images are of big men. The entry pass into a big man who has sealed off his defender and takes one power dribble before throwing down; the seamless up and under; the drop step prelude to a soft bank shot; the backwards lean meant to stun a defender and allow for a spin; the weak-side blocks--these are the images I immediately conjure, and the shadow moves I execute when no one's watching in the hallways at work or in my kitchen as I slave away over a hot microwave. This is gorgeous basketball.

Much of the aesthetic appeal owes to the effectiveness of the big-man game. It wouldn't look so nice or resonate as strongly were it wasted motion. Similarly, there's a reason that I don't envision myself dribbling along the top of the key as I make my way from one elbow to another, accomplishing little. While the players have changed--the guards have gotten bigger and the coveted big men are the ones who can hit the three--the game hasn't. North-south basketball is still the surest way to generate space, motion, and, ultimately, points. And as a result, an able man in the post is still the surest way to win. It's been true of Mikan, Russell, Chamberlain, Reed, Walton, Abdul-Jabar, Hakeem, Shaq, and Duncan. Sikma and Unseld. And it was also true of perimeter-led teams like the Bad Boys and Bird's Celtics, both of which had formidable front lines that could provide balance to an offense by contributing (which doesn't just mean scoring) from the paint. Even the recent Pistons team that won a title would work the ball inside and out despite Ben Wallace's offensive ineptitude and Roscoe's predilection for the perimeter.

Unfortunately, that's not the game that you always see today, something of which I was reminded this weekend. For all of the good that we have witnessed Gilbert Arenas, in particular, and the Wizards' inside-out attack, in general, accomplish in recent years (you know, like providing entertainment while winning and not playing defense), its obvious shortcomings were on display on Friday. I watched the Wizards lose to the depleted Hornets as Arenas and the Wiz used the final four minutes of a close game to take contested jumpers, throw up awkward runners, and take reckless drives into the paint. But it wasn't as though they deviated from their routine or played with a unique desperation. They just don't feed the post. And thus, there were no moments when the team stopped to pitch the ball inside as a means to draw attention away from he perimeter, collapse the defense, create new angles for passes to cutters, or anything else that a post presence can establish. It was, rather, offense predicated on dribbling past someone or using the threat of a drive to create enough space for a jump shot. It's hard to sustain winning against a good team when you're left to rely on that sort of a game.

It happened again yesterday as I watched the Knicks forgo a true post game in crunch time to instead rely on Stephon Marbury's shooting and Jamal Crawford's slashing. It worked this time, but in general, I never watch that system and feel terribly confident that the team even knows how to always get a good shot. There are, of course, notable examples such as the Suns and Mavericks, but even those teams need to get the ball in and out of the lane to make their half-court offenses fully functional. And excepting the truly sublime skills and execution of those teams, contrasting an attack like the Wizards' to that of a team such as the Spurs, or even a lesser team like the Raptors, makes you wonder why so many basketball minds have decided that de-emphasizing the post game is a good thing.

This may all be an economics issue, namely supply and demand. You doubt that the Wiz would turn down Dwight Howard were he available. But, of course, he isn't. And at a certain point, you have to do the most with what you've got. But more teams, it seems, should be trying to develop even serviceable post players who can execute a few moves and pass it back out while rebounding and playing defense. And that might not even be fair, as teams might be earnestly trying: since I mentioned the Knicks before, we shouldn't neglect that Eddy Curry, for example, has gotten touches this year and has scored aplenty in the paint. But yet, in crunch time, the team doesn't trust him or the north-south structure enough. And many teams, it seems, are happy to rely on the individual creativity of a perimeter player--something that fundamentally eschews a true system or protocol for scoring unless it wants to run a pick-and-roll--in crunch time rather than attempt to get him open by emphasizing the floor balance and spacing that is best achieved by sharing the ball with a player in the paint.

I have no pithy conclusion or haunting closing though, but I'd just conclude with this: You don't need stars in the post to win titles. But you do need someone down there to begin with. Wennington and Longley and Cartwright and King and Perdue--we all know these names for a reason. Fuck, Kevin Duckworth was an important NBA player because he helped Clyde Drexler be Clyde Drexler.

And now we can all get back to celebrating this and using it to contradict this post.

"How Do I Feel About Radio Hip-Hop? I Think It's Wack..."

We still have work to do

"...Most of the shit they say is straight garbage":

I was in my car on Saturday. I turned on Hot 97. I heard some DJ--Mister Cee?--say, "Blah blah blah...It's a Martin Luther King Mix Master Weekend...blah blah blah...I'm more of a Malcolm X guy, but I guess I can still respect what Martin Luther King did."

Oh, can you? Gee, what a magnanimous gesture.

This is why: 1) I hate Hot 97, a purveyor of ignorance; 2) Martin Luther King Day needs to be celebrated as something more than just a Presidents Day-like quasi-holiday. The man, and this nation's ongoing legacy of racial inequity, is too important to be trivialized by radio idiots and wink-wink observance.

Let It Be Written, Let It Be Done

It will look even cooler when he does this in the RCA Dome.

Were it no so entertaining to see him find new ways to fail, Marty Schottenheimer's plight would make me feel bad for him. LaDainian had a great day; the Pats played pretty poorly; San Diego was up 8 in the fourth quarter--and the Chargers still lost. At home. Why did Marty review that fumbled interception? And why did he take that timeout before the two-minute warning? Don't you think Nate Kaeding would have appreciated a shorter last-gasp kick, the sort that would have been possible had San Diego been smarter about its timeouts before the final possession? *Sigh* That's our Marty...

Now, we get the karmic showdown for which I long all year: Brady vs. Manning. May the Wolverine again triumph, just as Charles Woodson "stole" Manning's presumptive Heisman in 1997. Let's go Pats!

Making the Offseason Tolerable: An Album in Montage

Straight Bangin' Schizophrenia

Please, Lord, let it come to pass.

So far this year, I've had house guests as many nights as I haven't. New York + a commodious apartment + my stellar company = lots of visitors. And it's great. But combined with my usual workload, it also means that I've had limited time for blogging. And so, we end a week of guests with a post befitting one who's pretty tired. This thing is everywhere. And likely incoherent. Deal with it.

Enjoy the weekend, and let's go Ravens! We're just about due for Peyton's annual flame out...

- I've taken next to no time to get to know Lily Allen, who's supposed to have the pop-music game on lock, but I watched her video for "Smile" the other day, and all I could think about was Slick Rick's "A Love That's True." Did anyone else have that? I think it's because the music in "Smile" sounds like a compilation of the entire Behind Bars album, something that I used to rock to no end when I was about 13-year-old. See for yourself:


More Lily Allen, who earns points for wearing the Infrareds:


- Is Natasha the next Ciara type? Trying to sound like Beyonce while singing over something minimal is probably a pretty smart variation on the formula:


- Non-Pearl Jam rock music on the Bangin'? Got this track in the mail this week and somehow wound up with it in my head. Pretty easy to listen to, no? Seems like the kind of thing you might hear in a commercial, which could be why this conspicuous consumer likes it:

Foreign Islands, "We Know You Know It" (Filthy Dukes Remix)

- Michelle Wie, already your clubhouse leader for the person whom we will see far too much of in 2007. I don't want to know shit about her until she wins something. And stop entering PGA Tour events. It's embarrassing, and Jim Nantz gets breathless enough as it is.

- I thought I told you about this dude. We're over all this. Baseball is a sport proud of cheating. We get it.

- Please, everyone, stop coming up with these interesting ideas. Hillary's been renovating the middle for a while, minus the significant ideas, of course, and now you're obscuring her hard work. I mean, she started wearing a cross! She is so palatable. Don't steal her thunder. (I gotta say, this nascent movement toward universal coverage is exciting.)

- Teddy Pendergrass, "Close the Door" (Live)
Take 'em to the weekend, Teddy!

2Pac Should Take Notes

It's been about 11 months. Damn.

No Eminem verses required:
- Jay Dee, "Crushin'"
- Jay Dee, "Take Notice"

And then there're these:
- DJ Muro ft. Ghostface, Raekwon, and Trife, "The Roosevelts"
- Eddie Vedder, "Love Reign O'er Me"

Maintenance and Miscellany

I've pre-ordered the DVD of a Ken Burns documentary about the Dips. Now he just needs to make it.

- Stop. Look toward the top left of this page. Notice anything missing? Like, say, "my other site"? Well, that's because I have no other site. After a little more than a year and far too many fits and starts, Schembechler Hall is no more. The burden of updating two sites was too much, and the shame that came with such a derelict internet led to a diminished level of participation in something I really like, the college football BlogPoll. So college sports, replete with my irrational loathing of all things Lloyd Carr, are back on the Bangin'.

It's already started:

- Post BCS thoughts
- Final BlogPoll ballot

- I watched VH1's new White Rapper Show. You shouldn't. It's a disaster. (And props to MC Travel for basically nailing every person on the show.) Whatever good it hopes to accomplish by reprimanding contestants for using the n-word (something that made me wonder if the point was that whites shouldn't use it or that all people shouldn't) and trying to (theoretically) note that rap talent is just rap talent is surely not worth the costs. Nearly every contestant seems like a pathetic, unlikable caricature; MC Serch comes off as a pedantic has-been who speaks in banal vernacular; the show's format and tasks are terribly contrived; the ego trip production style (like flashing ironic lettering or obvious definitions in big letters on the screen) seems stale while missing the mark; and the people they selected don't appear to be good rappers. As a "hip-hop blogger," I probably need to give a blow-by-blow of the first episode, but honestly, it's not worth it.

I'll say this, though: the dude named John Brown is pretty much the most loathsome hip-hop fan you'll ever encounter. And it does, in fact, feel kind of good to see that other people hate him as much as you do. Of course, you wouldn't ever wave a dildo in the face of that kind of fan (which is what took place this week), but then again, you're not on VH1, a station that should probably bill itself as, "vicarious living and annoying gimmicks for people who can't think for themselves."

- Who knew that for all those years, as people would chant "wife beater" at Nets games, they were actually talking about Joumana? She needs to connect with Nick Harper's wife.

BlogPoll Ballot: Final

Rank	Team	Delta
1	Florida	25
2	Southern Cal	24
3	Ohio State	23
4	LSU	22
5	Boise State	21
6	Louisville	20
7	Michigan	19
8	Wisconsin	18
9	West Virginia	17
10	Rutgers	16
11	Texas	15
12	Oklahoma	14
13	Auburn	13
14	California	12
15	Brigham Young	11
16	Arkansas	10
17	Wake Forest	9
18	Boston College	8
19	Virginia Tech	7
20	Oregon State	6
21	Georgia	5
22	TCU	4
23	Notre Dame	3
24	Penn State	2
25	Hawaii	1

Dropped Out:

Thank You and Fuck You

Go Gators?

I think many Michigan fans were conflicted last night as they watched the Florida Gators put a beatdown on the Columbus Inmate All-Stars: Yes, OSU is getting wrecked...but No, this is something Michigan couldn't do; Ohio State is only a good school for illiterates...but Florida's whining likely knocked Michigan out of the title game; no Buckeye success is good...but an OSU win helps the Big Ten, and Michigan indirectly; Troy Smith owns us...but Tim Tebow is a Christian zealot who spurned us and still gets to go home with this.

It was tough. Personally, my rooting interest was both happily and horribly altered after last week's Rose Bowl. You know, the game that Michigan still hasn't started preparing for? Had Michigan won, I think a piece of me--my brain? Definitely not my heart--would have been pulling for the Buckeyes given that Michigan would have only lost by three points on the road to the potential wire-to-wire national champions. And the whole Big Ten thing, as the conference would have gone 4-3 in bowls while beating USC and three SEC teams. But this was never something about which I was happy, and I certainly didn't want to admit it.

But when Lloyd Carr and Mike DeBord showed up in Pasadena with a game plan meant to beat the 1906 Trojans and win that year's Rose Bowl, I was off the hook. I could root for Florida, reuniting with a Michigan fan's longtime best friend: schadenfreude. Sadly, nothing says Michigan football like hoping the other guys lose so that we look better. One day we'll have a coach who will render that pastime somewhat obsolete, but until then--when the team starts using modern strength and speed training; doesn't insist that mere execution of a tired game plan is the key to beating a good team; and makes changes during a game as things fail miserably--we can rely on the SEC owning OSU, and on the comfort that comes with the familiar hope that the teams we can't beat fail.

So: congratulations, Orson, and Stranko, two bloggers who deserve the happiness; thank you, Florida, for sending the prisoners back to solitary without any new pretty jewelry; and fuck you, Florida, for whining so much.

Michigan fans? Happy New Year. Three losses and the weekly Lloyd Carr bullshit are less than nine months away.

Music for a Monday: Odds and Ends

Never let anyone tell you to not play with your food. Yes, those are pretzels.

2007 starts off with a mix of this and that. Discuss...

- Orange Juice, "Rip It Up"
What's an 80s Scottish post punk band doing on Straight Bangin'? Well, it's no secret that the sweet sounds of 80s pop music fill these hallowed halls when we take breaks from the usual hip-hop, classic R&B, and Jodeci.

- EPMD and Keith Murray, "The Main Event"
So there's something called de Hop, and its mission is to produce entire songs live--rappers perform, DJs cut, and an artist creates the record art. I might be late on this, but I just saw something about it this weekend. Check it out here.

- Talib Kweli and Madlib, "Funny Money"
From the new Kweli and Madlib collabo EP Liberation.

- Consequence, "Callin' Me" (Stream)
This looks to be the first single from his GOOD Music debut, dropping later this year. Most people love to hate on Cons while others (myself included) think he might be capable of a decent record. I'd imagine that this will just reinforce whichever opinion you've already decided upon.

- MC Travel has endeavored to make the worst web video ever. What do you think?

Things in Which the Giants Should Invest

It wouldn't be January without a Manning choking and looking lost.

3) A new running back. Obviously.

2) A new coach. And it would be nice if he weren't hated by his own team so that it wouldn't quit on him with two months to go in the season.

1) A new quarterback. Preferably one who isn't mentally challenged and can read--let alone, read a defense--at something higher than a 2nd-grade level. Seriously, is there a stupider expression in all of sports than the one that is permanently affixed to Eli Manning's face? Forget the fact that Philip Rivers, Shawne Merriman, and Nate Kaeding are all very good at football--the Chargers won that trade just by getting guys who don't need help finding the field from the sideline.

10 Things I Hate About Flying

Or something else, ifyouknowwhatI'msayin'...

Your boy loves to fly. Traveling is fun; the idea that you get up one place and go to bed somewhere totally different remains very cool; I can sleep well on just about anything that moves (like your mom); and I like how it breaks up the routine. Unlike my family, populated by people who can’t take enough valium before taking off, I relish my time in the skies. But that said, there are some drawbacks to flying, most of them owing to incompetence, poor judgment, and the comically inept business models that most domestic airlines follow.

Ten Things I Hate About Flying (in no particular order):

1) The inhumane conditions that have arisen in the name of cost cutting. On Virgin Atlantic, it takes five and a half hours to fly to London. On Continental it takes five and a half hours to fly to Seattle. On Virgin Atlantic, you can get to London for roughly $450. On Continental, you can get to Seattle for roughly $450. On Virgin Atlantic, each person gets to choose from forty movies, twenty television shows, and dozens of albums. For free. On Continental, everyone has to watch The Queen. With $5 rental headphones. On Virgin Atlantic, you get to choose from multiple meal options, and you get things like fruit, salad, and vegetables to go with meat that’s a reasonable facsimile of something real. On Continental, you have no options, and you get things like potato chips, brownies, and a cup of mayonnaise with some potato chunks to go with the worse-than-McDonald’s cheeseburger in a plastic pouch. On Virgin Atlantic, you get a tooth brush, tooth paste, accoutrements to help you sleep. On Continental, you get nothing, and you’ll like it.

2) Babies, and the people who travel with them. Now, don’t get it twisted: I love children (no Foley). I was a camp counselor for years, I act like I’m twelve, I think irreverent youthfulness is preferable to stoic adulthood. Kids are great. But not babies who fly (and no, I don’t mean the ones with wings). Taking a baby on a plane is about as stupid and annoying as taking one to the movies. They are ill-suited for the environment. They cry endlessly and for no reason; they generally don’t tolerate discomfort, especially since they can’t express themselves without yelping; and it ruins everyone else’s time.

I grew up with the aforementioned family that hates to fly, living in a cold-weather city, and surrounded by our extended family. Since we didn’t go anywhere warm with any regularity and had no reason to go see grandma in Florida, I didn’t get on a plane until I was beyond the always-freaking-out-and-crying phase of life that seems to grip most people until they’re three or four. And this was a public service committed by my parents. I didn’t wake up adults trying to sleep because they work too hard and drink too much; I didn’t cause my parents to hold up lines while they fussed with 100 bags; I didn’t have my parents sounding like idiots while the spoke in baby voices in confined public spaces.

So adults, look: if you’re going somewhere with your little kids, don’t. Send grandma an email and some photos. Or put her on the phone and let her hear the kid waling on her own time, without making anyone else deal with it. That awesome Caribbean vacation? Or the once-in-a-lifetime sightseeing trip? Forget them—the kids are too young to enjoy or even remember them anyway. Stop fucking with the real people.

3) The fact that I can’t have internets at all and can’t use my iPod while we take off and land. In this era of hundreds-of-passengers metal birds with complex computer systems and precise satellite-driven navigation systems, I can’t use wireless internet while in transit closer to those satellites? I can’t use my palm-sized flash-memory mp3 player? The big, bad magnetic field is gonna fuck shit up while the pilot can see what he’s doing?

4) Being held hostage. As we all know, airlines usually can’t get most things right. They lose bags, repeat rhetoric without thinking, say no reflexively, understand schedules to be wholly suggestive, use the ugliest possible embroidery patterns on the seats—you name it. It’s just a part of life. Peyton Manning never wins the Super Bowl and airlines screw up. But that said, they do themselves no favors when they screw up for seemingly no reason, and nothing is more symbolic of the institutional shortcomings than when the day is clear, the terror level is low, and you sit on a runway for three hours.

This happens far too often, and it’s sort of like a civilian’s chance to own a little piece of the Abu Ghraib experience: They don’t feed you, because they can’t start food service until the flight takes off. You can’t have anything to drink for the same reason. The plane isn’t powered up so the cooling system isn’t working. There is no in-flight entertainment, because most flights don’t even offer it, and those that do won’t turn it on. You can’t use your cell phone because the doors are closed—this is totally galling. What the fuck is a phone call gonna do to a plane that’s not moving and barely on? And worst of all, you can’t get off the plane. Airlines would rather sit thirty feet from the gate for 3 hours than put the plane in reverse and treat the passengers like humans. What. The. Fuck. If we forget to get back on, that’s our fault. We’ve already paid, anyway, so why not?

5) People who think they’re important. I’m not talking about first-class passengers. They can’t help the fact that their seats are nice and that they get to board first. I’d do it if I could afford it, so I don’t hold my recurring anger toward them against them. I am talking about people who think that their time, space, and well-being are all more important than yours. People who treat the x-ray area like a living room; who kick your seat; who throw your bags around while carving out overhead space for themselves; who yell across seats and rows to their spouses; who demand special treatment. Just be a fucking human being; none of you are special!

6) Sitting near the bathroom. The odor makes me feel like I’m eating one of those 1000 Flushes toilet cakes for a few hours in a row.

7) Hearing from the flight crew. Generally, when I fly, I want to know that I am on the correct plane, that we’ll travel in an expeditious fashion, and that the pilot knows what he’s doing. I can discern all of this from a 30-second presentation over the loudspeaker. All other verbal communication is worthless, and it’s mostly intrusive. I know when we’re taking off and landing because I can feel it. I know when food and drinks are coming out because I either see it or feel it, as I tend to sit on the aisle. I couldn’t care less about the elevation at which we’re cruising so long as we’re flying higher than the tallest building that we might encounter. I’ve usually checked the weather in my destination city, and I can read English and illustrative cartoons well enough to know what to do in the case of an emergency. There is no reason that I need to hear from anyone unless something bad is happening. Drinks are $5? I’ll learn that when the cart comes around. We’re over Buffalo? It’s too far below me to really care. Now shut up, as I am trying to sleep.

8) Not hearing the truth on a regular basis when #4 is happening. As much as I hate hearing from the crew, and as annoying as being held hostage is, it’s even worse when they tell us some bullshit like “We’re taxiing for 20 minutes and then taking off” and then don’t speak to us again for 90 minutes as we sit there. The owner of a watch, I usually know when we’re off schedule and when the projections have proven false. Similarly, I am not satisfied when an hours-long delay is explained by saying, “The ground crew is checking on a few things.” Let me know what they are. Maybe some other pilot is being a dick, or the airline is not really sure of what’s going on. Ignorance might be bliss sometimes, but honestly, while I’m on the ground, I want to know. What if they’re taping on the wing with scotch tape? I might want to reconsider. And again, I’ve already paid.

9) An unattractive flight crew. I don’t really know when or where it started, but the myth of the comely, slutty female flight attendant is one that most men are socialized to cherish. And every time I step on a plane, I’m hoping that dreams come true.

10) A boring New Yorker. Making time for The Economist can be challenging, but it’s always worth it, as the magazine is regularly chockablock with reporting from a perspective uncommon among American media outlets. Really, it’s a wonderful, utilitarian pastime. But reading The New Yorker is a sublime pleasure, the nexus of literary writing, informed opinion, and probing curiosity. A simple indulgence, but an indulgence nonetheless. Except for when it’s the Fiction Issue or something filled with Ben McGrath’s pretentiousness and Adam Gopnik’s boring, self-indulgent elitism. Then it sucks and the plane ride is ruined.

11) BONUS: That USC players were imitating the Giants imitating the Dip Set and taking those “baaaaalliiiiiiin’” jump shots after raping the predictable Michigan Wolverines on Monday. It’s from a song called “We Fly High”; it qualifies.

Strunk and White

The original showtime

It’s no secret that I am an admirer of the gentlemen who make Free Darko, unique and so eloquent, one of the preeminent havens for NBA worship on these internets. But bias aside, I was surprised when I read of the allegations to which FD player-coach Bethlehem Shoals responded in this recent post. The FD dudes don't need help from anyone, let alone me, explaining what they do and defending their honor, but I was reminded of Shoals's post today as I was reading Sports Illustrated. For now, I’ll ignore the idiotic race-based jab or the completely misguided notion that FD is some sort of Chauncey Billups derivative. Instead, I’d like to testify in support of the celebration of basketball style and defend its importance, an endeavor that might strike some as near folly given what may seem to be a self-evident truth. I soldier on, regardless.

The common criticism of NBA basketball—not necessarily the Lig or its players, just the game itself—is that it is not “pure”: it’s no longer a true descendant of the Cousy fast break, of the Showtime Lakers, of the Bob Knight motion offense, of the Wooden efficiency. “It’s become something worse,” we’re often told by people who either don’t cover the sport or who have an agenda that encourages NBA slander. Even some true basketball diehards will tell us that the college game is more compelling given the reliance on systems that emphasize motion and the usual absence of talents who can or do dominate a game in a way that might remind us of Kobe Bryant. In sum, NBA critics are always quick to mention that the basketball of the Association is driven by tedious isolations and sedentary laziness, all theoretically (but wrongly) justified by the athleticism of the players.

To some extent, this is correct. I’d never argue that NBA basketball can’t be inefficient or stagnant at times. Seeing some young punk ruin a perfectly good run out because he wanted to put the ball between his legs and missed a chance to hit someone up ahead is disappointing; and watching Nate Robinson dribble away a possession and take some horrible jump shot as the other Knicks just stand there watching is maddening. Especially when those sorts of inadequacies are contrasted with a Phoenix Suns break or Jason Kidd orchestrating a half-court set with his passing and movement so that someone like Twin—who can’t jump and is addled by what I’ll generously call a defense-oriented skill set—can get an easy look. I also won’t argue that defense-first basketball is as engaging as Golden State surrendering 145 points in regulation. Sure, we can marvel at a stout defensive effort and appreciate its effectiveness, but I don’t think most fans get riled up just thinking about how straight Ron Artest keeps his back or how well Bruce Bowen can close out jump shooters. (The thunderous blocked shots of a Shawn Kemp are a different matter, but even the Reign Man was a dunker first in our imaginations.)

So yes, the criticisms are sometimes fair. But they aren’t unique to the NBA. As of last year, a perennially successful team like Pitt—Howland and Dixon eras—could be impossible to watch many times each season, its system predicated on disruptive and plodding defense reminiscent of the 1990s Heat and Knicks teams that everyone now ridicules, and its offense oftentimes little more than the celebrated Carl Krauser dribbling until forcing himself into the lane for a shot that was regularly awkward at best. These similarities—symptoms of bad basketball, not NBA basketball—can be seen throughout college hoops. Throughout all basketball, to be honest. My pickup teams fail when we stop moving and sharing the rock.

The solution is style, and style as an inherently positive adjective is the effective, creative application of a skill set. At least that’s how I’m defining it. The needlessly excessive might be "stylish" using a different definition, but for the time being, I’d rather just maintain the integrity of “style” and cast the inefficient stuff as “empty personalization.”

In no sports competition is style more important than the NBA, as basketball is predicated on a simple objective (put the ball in the basket more times than the opponent); it’s played at one time by only five men per team; and the league is populated by players of upper-echelon speed, strength, agility, dexterity, coordination, and explosiveness. Part of what makes football complex and compelling is that because there are so many moving parts governed by so many rules, at any given time there are exponentially greater variations in play. But in basketball, there is an effective limit to what a person can do from the perspectives of tactics and strategy. At some point—like, say, in a league with the best athletes and coaches who, despite what we like to say, all have a very high level of basketball erudition—one needs to innovate in order to make an elemental something exceptional, and thereby gain an advantage.



Steve Nash doesn’t need to throw a behind-the-back bounce pass to Amare Stoudemire to execute a pick and roll. He can instead come off a screen, set his feet, and step into a traditional delivery, taking more time but mitigating some risk. Or, he can sustain his directional momentum as he uses the screen and throw the pass with one hand back across his body, losing some control but seizing upon the element of surprise. Yet, by bouncing it behind his back—something that might seem “flashy” or might led itself to the predetermined conclusion that NBA players sacrifice basketball success for personal gain—he may, in fact be maximizing a traditional play’s potential: throwing it behind his back saves time and, when practiced enough may entail greater accuracy than the awkward pass going against the grain. That’s style, and that’s what Nash is lauded for.

Nash could be a bad example, though, because the Suns’ fast tempo has been embraced as a reawakening of better basketball and he’s white, rendering him far less likely to be held up as a symbol of absent substance and the elevation of the indulgent.

The obvious example of stylish performance at the other end of the social spectrum is Allen Iverson, a player both easily identified as the supposed standard bearer for the NBA’s “hip-hop generation” and also someone to whom a critic may point as a sign of basketball’s erosion. AI is of course not without his flaws, but neither is Nash, the reigning MVP. Both dribble too much; both are so good at the off-balanced lay-up that they can take bad shots. I’d never say that playing with style is to play flawlessly, but at the same time, both, despite their warts, have found ways to exceed many of their supposed peers thanks to their respective harnessing of styles that exploit their strengths. Whether it’s a behind-the-back pass off a pick or an expertly timed crossover, variations on basketball’s basic themes are the stuff of success. Like Nash, Iverson is a great, effective player.

Nash and Iverson also arouse so many conflicting emotions, though, that it might be better to consider the style of a player such as Dwyane Wade, whom is universally adored by purists and non-purists (can’t think of a better term) alike, an acknowledged winner, and certainly both black and in possession of street credibility. There are step back jumpers and then there’s Wade’s long lunge forward just to snap back and elevate. There are reverse lay-ups and then there’re Wade’s swooping one-handed curls underneath the rim. Is that empty showmanship or a successful wielding of skill? Luck and blind faith in innate coordination or hours of practice and earned trust in his abilities? Ask the Pistons or the Mavericks if Wade’s flair on the court augments his abilities or merely shows up opponents.

Same with those seemingly outlandish mid-range runners that Gilbert Arenas has perfected, the ones when it seems like his momentum or non-standard release angles might make them more likely to be rebounds than baskets. The Dream Spin, the sky hook—big men have stylishly innovated as well. At a more basic level: both Eddy Curry and Tim Duncan can execute a drop step, but Duncan’s style—perhaps not colorful but certainly a personalized expression of gifts—is far more efficient and calculated. Why wouldn’t a team want to rely upon these unique methods of attack? They work.

Really, it’s folly to suggest that style—and a close look at its inspiration, cultivation, and effects—is vacuous rhetoric, somehow less than a “real” basketball discussion. Style is basketball. And it’s far from empty. It is no coincidence that so many origin stories of our favorite NBA players include the almost trite rituals of being accompanied everywhere by a basketball or staying late in a gym. Basketball can be hard work, and defining one's own niche in the sport is a rarity. We are easily reminded of that in this week’s Sports Illustrated, which include$ an excerpt from a new biography about the game’s all-time greatest showman, Pistol Pete Maravich. Peep game:

With the exception of that loss, it had been a wonderful season, proof of what Press could do at a basketball school. He was voted the ACC's coach of the year, but the most convincing evidence of his aptitude -- and his outrageous aspiration for changing the game -- wasn't an award but a performance. It had taken place earlier that season, over the Christmas break, at Reynolds Coliseum. Only a half-dozen guys were there, but Bill Bradley himself inspired only a fraction of the awe they felt that day.

Wooden first saw Pete around 1960. The boy was performing the dribbling and ball-handling routines that would become so famous. "I saw him do things at Campbell I didn't think anybody could do," Wooden says flatly. In assessing the boy's talent and dexterity the coach compares him to some of the great black players he had known, going back to his days as an All-America at Purdue: "I had the great pleasure of playing against the New York Rens many times. They had some of the best ballplayers you could ever see. I watched the Globetrotters with Goose Tatum and Marques Haynes. None of them could do more than Pete. Pete Maravich could do more with a basketball than anybody I have ever seen."

Then again, Wooden felt obligated to ask his enigmatic friend, To what end? All those tricks, what did they accomplish? "It's crazy," he said. "How many hours does it take to learn all that? Wouldn't he be better off learning proper footwork for defense?"

"You don't understand," said Press. "He's going to be the first million-dollar pro."
...

The game was three-on-three. There were four N.C. State starters: Coker, Larry Lakins, Larry Worsley and Tommy Mattocks. There was Robinson. Pete made six. He was 17.

"We loved to play against Pete," Lakins would recall. "He was the coach's son. Coach worked our tails off. That was our only retaliation." They bellied him. They shoved him. They hit him. "We were beating the s--- out of him that day," says Coker.

But none of that punishment made a difference. Whatever Pete threw up came down through the net. There were jump shots, hook shots, set shots, bank shots, left- and righthanded shots, driving shots and shots that seemed to come all the way from Guilford County. The game went on for hours as each player took his turn trying to guard Pete. None of them could.

By then Robinson had an idea of how good the kid was; they would play one-on-one most Saturdays. But he had never seen Pete as he was that day: the way he taunted starters on an ACC championship team, teasing them with that high yo-yo dribble. And then, as soon as one of them leaned or lunged, he was embarrassed; Pete was gone.

[Bill] Bradley was hypnotically economical. Pete was his stylistic antithesis. Everything about this boy's game was funky and flagrant. He went behind the back, over the back, between his legs, between your legs. Then there was that pass with English on it, the one that bounced off the floor at an absurd angle. Years later a basketball writer would liken the ball's movement to something that came off a pool hustler's cue. But the sense of timing suggested an accomplished comedian.

As the game wound down, toward the end of its third hour, Pete invented a shot. He was fading to a corner. The stairs down to the dressing room were just beyond the court. "Going down," Pete called as he threw up a high, arcing hook shot. He didn't even break his stride, didn't stop to watch it swish though the net. He just kept going, right on down to the locker room.

Coker and Robinson ambled over to the bench and sat, speechless, shaking their heads. Finally, Coker spoke: "Les, you ever see anything like that?"

Robinson shook his head no.

Coker said, "I think he might be ... "

Robinson was nodding now.

"... might be the best who ever was."

Working at the edge of art and science, father and son produced a kind of vaudeville. "Showtime," they called it. They had come as a package deal to LSU, another football school, in 1966, and they toured the state of Louisiana, hitting towns like Shreveport and Alexandria, enticing the people, provoking their gossip, selling them on Tigers basketball. Each LSU player had his own Homework Basketball drill to perform as a specialty. But the main attraction -- nay, the only attraction -- was Pete. "Pete was an advertising campaign," says Bud Johnson, the LSU publicity man.

No one was more susceptible to the charms of his game than kids. Suddenly, in the heart of football country, sporting goods stores couldn't stock enough basketballs, hoops and nets. And back in North Carolina, teenagers like Charlotte's M.L. Carr -- one of the first blacks to attend the basketball camp at Campbell -- were rehearsing Pete's Homework Basketball routines until they could do them in their sleep. "I knew I couldn't be like Pete," says Carr. "But I did every drill religiously."

At 16, Carr had a sense of the game and its stylistic antecedents. He knew about Earl (the Pearl) Monroe from Winston-Salem State Teachers College, author of the spin dribble. He knew of Providence's Jimmy Walker and his famous crossover, a change-of-hands dribble that made the quickest defenders look slow. Then there was Archie Clark of Minnesota, who had perfected the stutter step, a hesitation move. "But Pete," says Carr, "was the best I'd ever seen. He did things the Globetrotters couldn't do yet."

In fact, Pete was already being called "a bleached Globetrotter." But unlike the Globetrotters, he made his moves in authentic game conditions. The competition was high level, high stakes, the expectations increasing at an exponential rate.

With his droopy socks and floppy hair, there was a growing sense that Pistol Pete would morph into something more iconic than just a basketball player. In anticipation of his varsity debut, in 1967, Press saw to it that LSU had a new pep band and a squadron of pom-pom girls. He arranged to videotape Pete's games and the Homework Basketball drills. There would be a full record of exactly how he and his son had conspired to change the game.

By Press's calculation Pete would have to shoot 40 times a game for LSU to have a chance of winning. Not only did this theory violate every strategic principle of the game, but it also had never been put into practice. Shooting at such an absurdly rapid rate -- better than a shot a minute -- would be physically and psychologically grueling. "He's got more pressure on him than any kid in America," Press said.

Pete's game became the subject of discussion among league officials. Coming down full stride on the break, he would wave his hand over the ball, then tip it with the other hand in the opposite direction. It looked like a magic trick. At one point a ref blew his whistle and signaled a traveling violation. "How can you make that call?" said an outraged Pete. "You've never even seen that move."

In fact, the call forced SEC officials to hold a meeting. The refs examined the tape until, at long last, they shook their heads in grudging agreement with the kid.

As a 17-year-old kid, Maravich was using his style to run elite-level college players out of the gym. He singlehandedly changed the rules of the SEC. Don’t tell me that delving into that is to waste time on the superficial. Wooden’s comments suggest that perhaps the elevation of style for style’s sake—or the sake of money—is a misguided endeavor, but that, in my mind, is an entirely different discussion.

What More Can I Say?

Hey, did you hear that I didn't lose 3 games this year? What needs adjusting?

This about sums it up.

Happy fucking New Year, Lloyd. Let us know when you intend to actually compete with the best coaches. After five losses in six years to OSU and four straight bowl losses--three of them coming in the Rose Bowl--we all await breathlessly.