Special Angry Guest Letter: Leaving New York

Dolan:

I’ve removed the greeting that usually begins these letters. Dear. I don't think you're worthy of it. I’ve also replaced the comma with a colon because it feels colder that way. And you deserve all the cold that comes to you. If it was up to me, you’d be exiled to Buffalo and put out on a street in the dead of winter wearing nothing but a Lin jersey.

Listen, Dolan, you’re going to get a lot of letters that start this way: “Now I’m a Brooklyn Nets fan.” Well, I didn’t start that way because I wanted to save it for the second paragraph. I’m from Brooklyn and I’ve always wanted a team--any team--here, so I'm hopping on board. The way I see it I’ve been loyal to the Knicks for too long. If you’re in a shitty relationship, you don’t stick around for more than a decade unless you're scared or dumb. All of my fond memories of the Knicks are from childhood, but my adult life as a basketball fan has been powered by disgust and disappointment (it would be much different if the team was merely bad). You’re not the only one to blame, but you’re at the top of the list. You’ve forced me to reconsider my identity, the way the Mets did when I was a kid and they traded Lenny Dykstra. A team can betray you, and that’s what you’ve done, Dolan. You’ve betrayed. You’ve bitten down hard on our hearts.

Some people will say I’m blowing this out of proportion. I’ve been home in Brooklyn for the past week and I’ve been reading the paper and listening to the radio--Francesa and Lupica and others are backing up this move, whether they like you or not. They’re saying Lin’s not a good fit for this team, that he worked in the D’Antoni system, that he’ll flop around in the Woodson system, that his weaknesses have been exposed and other teams will pounce on him this year, that he’s not capable of leading the Knicks to a championship. These people, as my grandfather would say, have rocks in their bean. Read Jay Caspian King’s “Dumb Move, Dolan” on Grantland today--That sums up why keeping Lin was the right choice. I won’t get into that here, except to say that keeping Lin was VERY CLEARLY THE RIGHT CHOICE, YOU DIRTY PIECE OF GARBAGE.

I’ve let my anger get the best of me, Dolan. This is what you do to people. I can’t drive today, that’s all I know. If I drive, I’ll smash into things like Jason Kidd. I’m finishing this now and I’m realizing it's really not much more than simple hate mail. But maybe hate mail is all you deserve. See, Dolan, my blood’s on fire. This is a different kind of let-down. You’ve made me lose sight of common sense things like courtesy and giving people the benefit of the doubt.   

  

In a couple of weeks, I’ll be driving back to Mississippi--where I’ve lived for the last four years--and I’ll be happy to go, in part because you’ve soured my trip home. Yesterday I saw a kid--he couldn’t have been more than seven or eight--wearing a Lin jersey and it broke my heart. That kid has had to learn too quickly about betrayal. I hope he wakes up hating you and hating the Knicks. I hope he switches teams, cheers the Rockets or the Nets. I sincerely hope that, Dolan. I hope he writes you a letter in crayon or some shit, includes a picture of himself in his expensive Lin jersey, and I hope you read it and then plop your head down on your desk and cry for hours because you’ve misunderstood the world.

Bill Boyle

Learning From the King

Dear LeBron,

Now that the dust has cleared and you’ve celebrated your championship by rapping with LMFAO while wearing a t-shirt depicting your face as a vampire—to each his own, I guess—I’d like to offer a few words. First of all, congrats. That was an incredible performance. It reminded me of when I used to be able to beat my little brother every time in the driveway, at will. If he ever got close to actually winning, I’d back him down repeatedly and take him to the hole every time, game over. Victory was never really in doubt. Basically I was the Bill Russell of me vs. my little brother. (He was three years younger than me, but still.) Anyway, these last two weeks, you made the entire NBA your little brother. And not just the young Thunder, but also the old Celts. Everyone officially became your little brother. And it was pretty damn impressive. To make the absolute best basketball players in the world seem like your younger siblings is a crazy feat. Shaq did it. MJ did it. Hakeem did it for a year or two. But besides that, nobody in the last twenty years has come close (including Kobe and Duncan, in my opinion). And this, much more than any supposed learning or changing you might’ve done after last year, is why America is on your side again.

Americans love dominance, LeBron. For those who truly dominate the competition, much will be forgiven. If you don’t believe me, take a closer look at the biographies of MJ or Shaq or Tiger or Steve Jobs. And, in your case at least, this is as it should be. Your dominance should be your redemption. We felt a weird resentment towards you over the last year that had as much to do with your failure to dominate as it did with your arrogance. Maybe more, actually. And so it was a joy and a relief to see you finally take over and dominate in the way we’d always expected of you—the freight-train drives to the basket, the impossibly contorted layups, the clutch bank shots, the timely threes, the passes in transition, the back-downs in the post, the impeccable court vision while double-teamed. We’ve always held you to unreasonably lofty basketball standards, and over the last couple of weeks you actually met them. Just like MJ used to do. Which is crazy.

Now, we’re not gonna make that old mistake of assuming that a perfect sports performance must have some relation to moral perfection (i.e. LeBron was an arrogant asshole, then he was humbled, became a great guy, and won a championship). But that doesn’t mean you haven’t changed, either. It just means the relationship between you and all of us who call ourselves NBA fans—not Heat fans—has returned, completely and finally, to the basketball court. And it feels good. You’ve reminded us that awe is so much more fun than contempt. How could we begrudge a guy his happiness when he played the game so damn well? We can’t. So thanks for giving us a performance for the ages. Before the series ended, you admitted you were immature last year. Well, we were a little immature, too. Thanks for helping us move past all that with an all-time great performance that made all the peripheral issues seem small in its wake.

So much of the media coverage surrounding you has had a condescending tone, like all the talking heads know better than you, like they’ve been trying to teach you a bunch of lessons about life (arrogance will blow up in your face, there are no short cuts) and basketball (don’t settle for jump shots, develop a post game) and now that you’ve played perfectly and admitted your immaturity, their lessons have finally sunk in. This is pretty much BS. Whatever you did, whatever you figured out, it was on your own. The question shouldn’t be what you learned, but what we learned from you and your performance over these past two weeks. I don’t know if you’re any more humble behind the scenes than you were a year ago, but I do know, conclusively, that you weren’t posting on Twitter. And I think that made a difference. No kidding. As much as I'd like to believe otherwise, the benefits of your summer visit to Hakeem have probably been way overblown—I didn’t see you doing Dream Shakes during the Finals—but I don’t think the stories of your self-imposed Internet/TV exile are overblown at all. Getting off Twitter and the Internet and not watching TV, these things had to help your focus, right? And not just because of all the second-guessing you avoided. There’s a lesson there, for me, at least. If you want to actually achieve something you’ve been wanting for years and haven’t been able to do, you may have to eliminate all the media distractions. And by “you,” I mean “I.” From this point on, I shouldn't write another one of these letters or do my daily surfing of the Internet until I win a Pulitzer. In any category.

Along the same lines, I also learned something from a mantra that you repeated a lot during these playoffs, one that seems like an empty sports cliché, but I don’t believe it is: “Hard work and dedication.” You threw that phrase around a lot, and I think it has meaning. People talk a lot about your talent and your perfect basketball combination of size, strength, speed, and agility, but maybe we haven’t given you enough credit for how much of your game comes from just pure effort and dedication to your craft. You excel at the skills that take practice just as well as you excel at the skills that come naturally. Your regular season game improves every year, even when it seems impossible for you to improve. And the hard work and dedication of these last few weeks was off the charts, starting from when your back was against the wall in Game 6 of the Celtics series. It’s hard to exhibit more hard work and dedication than you did during that performance (45, 15, and 5), which ended up being a template for your play in the Finals. For as much as all of us basketball fans complained two summers ago that you’d opted for the “easy” way to a championship, none of us could say that you got this championship easily. We (again, read: "I") can learn from this, too, the reminder that if you want to achieve an enormous goal, it takes an enormous amount of hard work and dedication. That might sound dumb or obvious to some people, but you know it’s not. I plan to put a HARD WORK AND DEDICATION sign next to my desk.

The final lesson I learned from you over these last two weeks is almost the opposite: the importance of enjoying yourself. Like I said, I doubt the visiting-Hakeem-made-a-big-difference narrative and I kind of doubt the narrative that you’re more humble now, but I believe the no-Internet narrative and I definitely believe the joy-of-the-game narrative. It was obvious that basketball wasn’t as fun for you last year, as you’ve said a lot, and it was obvious that this year was different. But it was also different than your goofy Cavs years, too. In the last two weeks, you’ve perfected the difficult mix you’ve been perfecting all season: being intensely focused and hardworking, while also enjoying yourself. Which led, of course, to the ultimate enjoyment of jumping up and down on the sidelines with the goofiest, happiest, most genuine smile we’ve ever seen from you. So for everyone who has a huge goal, you’ve reminded us that it’s gotta be fun, too. To sum up: Eliminate distractions. Push yourself. Enjoy yourself. Thanks for all that, LeBron. The only thing left is the hard part, the part for which you deserve the most credit: actually making it happen.

In conclusion, LeBron, let me offer you some advice, because I can’t help myself and because this is probably the last open letter I ever write to an NBA personality. (Private letters, that's a different story.) Recall that Dirk got a little lazy after he finally reached the top of the mountain—and paid the price this year. I bring that up for this reason: Many talking heads have suggested, over these last few days, that we have entered an era of Miami Heat dominance, that there is clearly no stopping you guys now. I was watching SportsCenter the day after the championship and before a commercial break, Scott Van Pelt said, “So how many championships will the Miami Heat win? Coming up next...” (I turned off the TV.) Recall, LeBron, that two weeks ago many of the same people who are talking about the inevitable Miami Heat dynasty were suggesting the Heat should be blown up, that the Big Three couldn’t coexist, that this chemistry experiment was a failure. Two weeks ago, LeBron. So listen to these guys at your own peril. The positive stuff is just as dangerous as the negative stuff. And don’t forget that even as you were spraying champagne in the locker room, Derrick Rose—not to mention my boys Ricky Rubio and Jeremy Lin—was rehabbing. Even as you were rapping with LMFAO, Deron Williams was considering joining Dirk and Cuban, CP3 was thinking about which of his friends to recruit to the Clippers, and the Spurs were doing what the Spurs always do. And while Miami throws a parade with you at the epicenter, Durant and Westbrook and Harden will be in a gym somewhere, doing everything they can to be next year’s Heat. Hard work and dedication.

Sincerely,

Burke

P.S. You should really thank Chris Bosh. Pull him aside sometime in the next few weeks and just thank him. Something like, “Hey, I know everyone’s talking about me right now, and how dominant I was, but we both know that I didn’t really start playing on another level until you came back. That’s not a coincidence. You were huge. Goofy, but huge. And the three pointers…Crazy. Anyway, man, thanks.” I think it would mean a lot to him. I really do.

P.P.S. There came a point--too soon, really--when my brother finally beat me in our driveway, and after that it was pretty much over. He beat me every time, LeBron. I don't even wanna say how old he was. My point here is this: Watch out for your little bros in Oklahoma City, not to mention elsewhere. Little brothers get better without you even realizing it.

Basketball Reasons

Dear Steve Kerr,

Now that the conference finals are over and you and the rest of the TNT guys are done until next season, I think it’s only right to pause for a second and to remember the last couple of weeks. Ever notice that as soon as a team is eliminated, it’s like they cease to exist until the season’s over? Usually I like that—it’s nice not to hear about the Lakers or remember how consistently mediocre the Rockets are—but man, I hate to see these Spurs and Celtics exit the stage. I really do. I also hate to see you TNT guys exit the stage. Everybody knows the Inside the NBA crew is great (besides Shaq, who’s terrible except for a few moments of unconscious greatness, but who I’d sort of miss if he left), but people don’t talk enough about what a great commentator you are—really intelligent, funny, and most of all, genuinely enthusiastic about the game. It's heartening to see a guy who still loves basketball as much as you do. You’ve retained your awe, which I really respect. You're one of those great enthusiasts who makes everybody else enjoy themselves even more through your enthusiasm.

During the last Thunder/Spurs game, there was a stretch of incredible back-and-forth basketball and I remember at one point, you said, “This is just brilliant stuff.” I really liked that, and it was totally true. And not just for that stretch: over the last couple of weeks, there's been brilliant stuff happening every single night. I can’t remember a pair of conference finals this good since the days when you were teammates with MJ. Actually, maybe even before that. There’ve been some incredible conference finals over the years—the Bulls team you played on vs. your partner Reggie’s Pacers, for one—but for a year when the Western and Eastern finals were both as good as these? In my opinion, we’d have to go back to 1993, right when I was really getting into basketball as a teenager. That was Suns vs. Sonics in the West and Bulls vs. Knicks in the East. Recall: Suns in 7, Bulls in 6, but Knicks went up 2-0. In the first game of that Bulls/Knicks series, Starks had the memorable left-handed baseline jam on Horace Grant and MJ, a play that I’d bet still quietly occupies space in millions of brains. Then MJ had 54 in Game 4, most of them in Starks’s face, and averaged 32/6/7 for the series. In Game 7 of the other series, with a trip to the Finals on the line, Barkley had 44 points and 24 boards. Man, that was a pair of great conference finals. And I think this year’s two series were along those lines. In fact, I can’t remember ever enjoying two different playoff series at the same time as much as I enjoyed these, 1993 included. I know we'll remember these series, most likely, as the moments when LeBron and Durant both reached new levels, Durant in that 18 point fourth quarter in Game 4, LeBron (obviously) in his 45-points-in-45-minutes-in-an-elimination-game performance in Game 6. But let’s not just forget the other incredible performances by guys on the losing teams, the ones by Parker (Game 2) and Ginobili (5) and Stephen Jackson (6) and in the other series by Garnett (5) and Pierce (the final-minute three in Bron’s face in Game 5) and most of all, the entire series of performances by Rondo.

The Inclination to Speed Up

Dear Russell, James, and Kevin,

If I may be so bold, fellas, I’d like to offer you some advice. It can be applied immediately to the rest of your games against the Spurs, to the Finals (if necessary), and to any future playoff series. It can also be applied to your personal lives, if you so choose. I watched the second half of Game One in New Orleans, at a seafood restaurant on Bourbon Street on a TV with the sound on mute, so I wasn’t able to pay the best attention, but I couldn’t help but notice that in the fourth quarter you guys began trying too hard, pressing, forcing it. My subsequent research has confirmed this. You went into the last quarter up by nine, traded a couple baskets with the Spurs, and then fell apart. Besides a miss and a foul from Collison and two free throws for Perkins, the Thunder end of the play-by-play summary consists solely of you three. Here it is:

Joining the Party

Dear Mr. Bogut,

I’ve been meaning to write you for a few days now, but haven’t really had a chance. I just wanted to let you know that I’m in your home country. My brother-in-law and his wife live here and we’re visiting them. For my third emergency contact on our customs information, I listed you. I do know a couple other Australians, but they live in the U.S., so you’re pretty much all I’ve got, Andrew. I’ve been hoping to run into you randomly on the streets, spot you towering above the crowd, but my siblings-in-law live in Sydney and your website says you spend each offseason back home in Melbourne, so I guess it’s not meant to be. I’ve had to settle for looking for Cate Blanchett instead, who apparently runs a theater company not far from the coffee shop where I’m writing this letter, but she’s much shorter than you and it hasn’t been easy. I haven’t seen any kangaroos either. I have, however, heard many people of all ages and ethnicities say “no worries” and “mate.” I’ve also heard the phrase “G’day, mate” spoken unironically, by an old man in an electric wheelchair. I’ve also learned that your countrymen call breakfast “brekkie,” which is cool. I can’t speak to Australia as a whole, or your home city, but Sydney’s pretty dang fantastic. It’s like a great mix of London, San Francisco, Singapore, and Honolulu. It’s like the platonic ideal of a city, actually, plus beautiful beaches and harbors. You Aussies are lucky to have this place. If Melbourne is anything like it—and I hear some people actually prefer Melbourne—I can see why you still come back every year. In fact, after these last two weeks, I’ve concluded empirically that Australia is much cooler than America. 

Our One Noble Function

Dear Coach Popovich,

Here’s my theory, which probably isn't original at all: Every single decision a player makes in a basketball game offers him a choice between being selfish and being unselfish. Every play. On D, the selfish choice often requires less effort and leaves a player less vulnerable to ridicule. That’s the appeal: if your teammate’s man is driving the lane, it takes more energy to help him than to stay with your man, plus you run the risk of getting dunked on. I know I’m preaching to the choirmaster here, but let me keep going with this. On offense, the selfish choice isn’t really about effort. Speaking from my pick-up and sub-JV basketball experience, I’d posit that most basketball players only feel tired on defense. Miraculously, at least in my experience, we forget how tired we are as soon as the ball is back in our hands. The motivation for the selfish offensive choice is simple: the attention/ glory/ personal satisfaction of shooting and possibly scoring. That's for all levels of basketball, but for the NBA there’s an added element: money. Any decent behind-the-scenes NBA book makes it clear that most professional basketball players equate points with money. And understandably so. Points are the bedrock measure of a basketball game, and if you want to stay in the league, thereby being able to make money for yourself and your immediate family and your extended family and your hangers-on, then the most obvious way to do that is to score points. I’m gonna get mine is the underlying motto of a great many NBA players, which seems pretty obnoxious from the vantage of fans like myself, until I think about what I’d do if the quality of my family’s lifestyle was directly tied to how many baskets I made. (I’m ignoring the fact that personally I've always jacked up a lot of threes even when my family’s welfare wasn’t on the line.) The unselfish decision requires you to give the attention/glory/money to someone else in order to get your team a higher percentage shot. Except if (and only if) you’re the team’s acknowledged go-to guy, in which case you may be required on occasion, especially in fourth quarters, to make decisions that appear to be selfish—shooting the ball more, taking control—for the benefit of your team. And even this kind of seeming selfishness is unselfish because, as with certain kinds of good defense, it can open you up to ridicule. (Don't know about you, but I'm thinking of LeBron right now, Coach.) So everybody knows that the primary job of an NBA head coach is to get players to consistently make the decisions that will require more effort, cost them more money, give them less glory, and open them up to ridicule. It’s one of the hardest tasks in all of sports, and much more difficult than coaching football or baseball, where roles are more clearly defined. And again, I’m sorry to tell you all this stuff that you already know, but I’m saying all this to set up this one point. Here it is: I watched your team’s first round series over the last week, and I’m truly amazed at how well you continue to pull off this borderline impossible task.

Celebrate Older Americans Month

Dear Paul, KG, and Ray:

I don’t know if you guys are aware of this, but May is Older Americans Month. I hadn’t heard of it either, but the other day I saw a sign up on the campus where I teach, telling me to celebrate it. Here’s some background from the holiday’s official website: “Since 1963, communities across the nation have come together to celebrate Older Americans Month—a proud tradition that shows our nation’s commitment to recognizing the contributions and achievements of older Americans.” Now, I don’t know which communities have been celebrating this holiday since 1963 (sounds like BS to me) and I don’t even know what constitutes an older American (older than who, right?), but every NBA fan knows that you guys are Older Americans, at least in basketball terms. And, in fact, the theme for Older Americans Month 2012 is perfect for you guys: “Never Too Old to Play…” That’s the theme, with the ellipses and everything. I don’t like that ellipses, though, because there’s a hint of doubt there. Like some Older American is thinking about participating in an “intergenerational Wii bowling tournament”—the website suggests this activity—and trying to convince himself that the slogan is actually true. And after losing Game One against the Hawks, I know you guys also must have doubts, deep down, about whether or not the Big Three is finally too old to play. And even though the slogan is ridiculous—it certainly is possible to become too old to play—I don't think you guys are too old to play. I think you have another run left in you.

Be Nice About It? Be Nice About It?

Dear Metta,

Here’s a phrase I never hoped to see on the ESPN ticker: “…elbowed in the head by World Peace.” I’d watched the game earlier, witnessed the elbow when it happened, but even a couple hours later, every time I saw that phrase on the ticker it made me sad. It really did. And not just for James Harden and the Thunder and their fans, though I was definitely sad for them. Before you sent him to the floor, Harden was the best part about watching that game. He had fourteen points in less than fourteen minutes, en route to what would’ve surely been another ridiculous game off the bench for the soon-to-be Sixth Man of the Year with the amazing, enigmatic beard that’s half Imam and half baseball Brian Wilson. (In case you didn't know, Metta, Harden had forty off the bench a few days ago against the Suns. Forty. Off the bench.) If he misses any playoff games or struggles with post-concussion symptoms, that’s gonna be bad. Really bad. And not just for him and his team and NBA fans, but for you, too. After I saw the play in slow-mo and realized just how awful it was, how vicious the elbow was despite your protests to the contrary, I was almost as sad for you as I was for James Harden. Because you’re one of my favorite NBA personalities, and because in April you’d finally turned a corner and become an integral part of the team again after struggling miserably for most of the season, and because you’d put so much effort into changing the story of your life—even going so far as to change your name—and now, after a single moment, the Evil Ron Artest narrative is back. You’ve worked so hard to become a lovable comic character after being the villain, and now suddenly you’re threatening to become a tragic figure, unable to escape your biggest flaw. Damn, Metta.

Hiking That Big Mountain

Dear Dirk,

I’m writing in response to your two recent Twitter messages that said the following: “My top 5 stones songs: sympathy for the devil, under my thumb, gimme shelter, beast of burden (mick singing), you cant always get what u want…What r yours?” Well, where to begin? First of all, let me just say this: some cities have all the luck. I’m not sure Dallas deserves you, Dirk. The best Euro player of all time and a Stones fan? Damn. And the crazy thing is, that’s not even your best music-related Twitter moment. Here's one of my two favorites: “On way to arena. Big game in okc. On another note. Radiohead in big D today. Who is going? Go mav.” I like that for multiple reasons. And here's the other: “One of the best concerts I have ever seen. Jay z and kanye. They killed it. Was kanyezee wearin a leather skirt?” Wow. I already loved your game, of course, and your dour German shooting coach and your acoustic guitar playing and your backpacking through Europe and your friendship with Nash, but after reading these messages, I love you even more.

The Frictionless Lives of the Meek

Dear LeBron,

A couple weeks ago I was talking to my grandma on the phone while she watched the last few holes of Tiger Woods’s victory at Bay Hill. He was up by five strokes, in position to get his first win since that moment more than two years ago when his status as one of America’s most beloved athletes evaporated overnight. (You can relate to that, of course.) Anyway, my grandma was giving me play-by-play as we talked, and when Tiger got to eighteen, victory in hand, she said, “Well, I guess he’s been in the penalty box long enough.” I thought that was a brilliant comment. Tiger has been in the penalty box long enough. And so have you, LeBron. In fact, maybe you—who committed no sins against morality, but only against humility—have served more time in the penalty box than you even deserved. America’s system of checks and balances worked: You orchestrated an act of extreme and oblivious arrogance and we the people held you accountable for it—wishing ill on your performances for an entire season, cheering Dirk when he put you in your place. But that’s all behind us now, or should be. We’re deep into another season, a season in which you’ve played incredibly, up there with almost any season by any player in history. In the course of one game against Portland you guarded all five positions. You also rode a bicycle to a game against the Bulls in late January, when the Miami Marathon shut down the streets. Yes, your bike said King James on it, but still: You rode a bike to a game against the other top team in the East and had 35 points, 11 boards, and 5 assists. How can we hate on that? (If I had any advice for rehabilitating your reputation, it would be this: Sell all your cars and SUVs and start riding your bike everywhere.) And your game’s hard to hate too. I mean, how can we continue to hate on a guy whose biggest flaw as a player might be that he makes the unselfish pass too often? After you took your talents to South Beach, I never would’ve imagined I’d say this, but you deserve better from us, LeBron.

Point, Prokhorov

Dear Mr. Prokhorov,

One of the funniest people on Twitter, in my opinion, is the fake version of you. Fake Prokhorov came to my attention before the season started, when the Nets (and the Rockets) were briefly accused of tampering for holding secret meetings with Dwight Howard. Chris Broussard posted a message that said, "Howard met with NJ owner Mikhail Prokhorov Thurs night in Miami, sources say," and the fake version of you responded by saying, "Who are sources? They pay ultimate price." Me and one of my buddies got a real kick out of that for a few days, "pay ultimate price." A few other great Fake Prokhorov moments, chosen at random: "This World Peace seem like very dangerous thing." "I very much like this Mitt Romney. I am also repulse by poor people." "In USA, Kevin Garnett is consider to be jerk that choke and annoy opponent. In Russia, he is man of respect." "I must admit new photo of Jay-Z baby is frighten me. I have never seen baby before." And more recently: "Baseball team price of two billion USA dollar is not impress. I have boat worth this much." I haven't even included any of Fake Prokhorov's comments about Chris Bosh, which may be the highlight of the whole enterprise, but which I've deemed too cruel to include here. Point is, you became a hilarious fictional character to me, and your decision to run for president of Russia only added to the fun. Then, about a month ago, a few weeks before you lost the election, the New Yorker published an article on you called "The Master and Mikhail." When I turned to the beginning of the article, I wasn't disappointed at all. Underneath your picture, the caption featured one of your quotes from the article: "I am a boa constrictor...Calm, good mood." You can't imagine how happy I was to see that quote. You, the real Prokhorov, were apparently just like the Fake Prokhorov, except even funnier. So I start reading the article and find out that your first business, an extremely profitable one, was "an operation for stonewashing jeans." I loved this, too, of course, and expected much more of the same. But instead, I came across another quote from you, and this one gave me pause, Mikhail.

Another Humbling Experience for Myself

Dear Dwight,

As you know, ESPN covered your trade status these last few months the way CNN covers major natural disasters—except ESPN stuck to the story longer. I remember in January on MLK Day I was at Dick’s Sporting Goods in the middle of the afternoon while my wife bought running shoes, and up on the big TV screen I saw an ESPN anchor ask Jalen Rose about you. In response, Jalen started complaining about our 24/7 media culture—before proceeding to discuss which L.A. team would be the better fit for you. I wanted to yell, Jalen, you’re complaining about yourself, bro! You've become what you hate! But I didn’t, because I was in a public place and nobody listens to me anyway. But as of last week’s trading deadline and your decision to stay in Orlando for another year, all that bullcrap is finally over, at least for a while. The Worldwide Leader has moved on to that other fascinating Floridian, Tim Tebow (again). And now that the chatter around you has finally tapered off, I’m hoping I can have your attention for a moment to offer a very small piece of advice. I have no comment on how you handled the situation these last few months, nor on your decision to put off a decision for a while. I want to talk to you about something else: Remember a few weeks before the trading deadline, when you played in New Jersey? And remember how the Nets fans, throughout the game, chanted "We want Dwight! We Want Dwight!" and held up posters and cardboard cutouts to encourage you to come to the Nets? Remember what you said after the game? If you don’t, let me quote you: "It's a humbling experience…I wish more people can see how it feels to go into another arena and have big faces and posters, it's a humbling experience. It's a blessing. I've been to every arena and it feels good to have a great reception, not only here but everywhere I go. And like I said, it's humbling and I really appreciate it." Well, my advice to you is very simple, Dwight: You gotta stop using the word humbling like that. I’m serious. The experience you were referring to is not humbling at all. Actually, it's the exact opposite of humbling. And in the future, you’ll no doubt experience many more moments like this one, and you’re going to want to use the H-word to describe those moments, too. Don't do it, Dwight. For the sake of yourself and NBA fans everywhere, please don't do it.

Special Guest Letter: Brown-Eyed Kentucky Gunslingers

Dear Rajon,

I wish I could say I never doubted that we’d both wake up this side of the trade deadline and you’d still be my point guard, but when it comes to the NBA these days, I don’t have that kind of faith. I still wonder if Danny Ainge leaks your name in trade talks to wind you up, because you play so damn well when you think the world is against you. Probably it’s high time for him to develop a new strategy, but this letter isn’t about my problems with the Celtics organization. It’s about you, Rajon, and the particular brand of beauty that comes from being a man born to the wrong time.

When faced with the possibility of a cancelled NBA season, I had to find new ways to justify my cable subscription, which I’d bought for the sole purpose of watching NBA games. I’ve struggled to care about Boardwalk Empire and The Walking Dead, but the TV show I find myself loving most, despite its more formulaic structure, or its absence of actors with Michael K. Williams-type cred, has been Justified. What I’ve realized, Rajon, while following your trade deadline noise, is that I have a crush on Raylan Givens because he reminds me of you. You and Deputy Marshal Givens share more than just Kentucky roots and lovely, inscrutable brown eyes. He belongs in an earlier time, when being a U.S. Marshal meant you could shoot when you wanted, and you belong in another lost time, when running the point meant it didn’t matter if you could shoot at all. You’re no sharpshooter, Rajon, but you’re a damn good gunslinger, and while your assists won't start you on the All-Star team and I’ve seen them a million times, it still makes me gasp when you stitch a pass through a crowded lane before I even realize you’re passing the ball. Last week against the Lakers, the whole If-Players-Wear-Dark Glasses-Will-We-Lose-Control-of-the-Game debate reared its absurd head, and Jeff Van Gundy was right to devote his commentary to how misguided this is. Nobody can look into your eyes and know how and when you’re going to draw. That’s the point.

Since you’ve always been known to shoot from the hip, both on and off court, it has surprised me this past month to see so much buzz about trouble in the Celtics locker room. Of course, Boston sports media are notoriously two-faced about this kind of thing. Taking shots of Jack Daniels in 2004 was treated as exactly the kind of cowboy antics needed to win big, but the Sox won't crawl out from under Fried Chicken Gate 2011 for a few years at least. (Whenever that happens, and the booze and the wins start coming back to the Fenway clubhouse, I wish they'd consult a Kentucky boy like you or Raylan, and pick a decent bourbon.) Similarly, I don’t believe that all of a sudden, Rajon, you’ve started to jaw at those aging veterans, and all of a sudden, they have a problem with it. Like the frontier, as the Ubuntu Celtics disappear, they are being made into a myth. I don’t buy that anything has dramatically changed since 2008, which was only four years ago, and hardly qualifies as an “era.” Obama, like you, is still campaigning for his legitimacy, and as the President would surely tell you, your J hasn’t improved that much. This is always who you’ve been, Rajon, a sullen and slighted Federal Marshal of the point, and it’s because you’re a dying breed, not in spite of it, that I want you in the Celtics' future plans. No disrespect to Chris Paul and Russell Westbrook, who, I suppose, might be better players, but I don’t see either of them having the grit to go one-handed against Lebron James in a playoff fourth quarter, dislocated elbow dangling almost to their knees.

Abigail Greenbaum

P.S. And if you’re a little more on edge this season, who can blame you? Despite his continued grace in horseshoe moments, Paul Pierce looks so gassed right now I sometimes wonder if he’ll have the breath to trash talk while being carried off court in a wheelchair, let alone keep up with your transition offense.

P.P.S. I know plenty of folks who choose their NBA teams because of college basketball allegiances--why else were so many Louisianans on board when a certain former Celtic was grinning and spinning and drooling and drinking while driving and fighting for the last few years? But I’ve always been an NBA fan first, so I don’t see why it can’t work the other way. Pulling for the Celtics teaches you to love teams that the world has seriously good reasons to hate. Go Wildcats.

Only One Way to Take

Dear Ricky,

Out of respect for you and for your season-ending injury, I'm canceling this week's regularly scheduled letter. Like everyone else, I was really bummed when I heard the news. And like everyone else, I'll be wishing you a speedy and full recovery, hoping you come back even stronger next season. (Was it Bird who shot free throws from a chair every day while he was injured?) This situation will only make us cheer harder for you once you return. And it may be difficult to realize it now, but don't forget that you still had an incredibly good rookie season, even if it was cut short. Don't forget that last year, without you, the T-Wolves were 17-65, the worst team in the league, and that this year, before your injury, you guys were 21-19, and in the 8th playoff spot in the West. That's a heck of an improvement, something to be proud of. You've helped rejuvenate a city's basketball hopes, and those hopes will be there waiting for you when you return next season.

On Twitter once it became official that your season was over, you said, "There is only one way to take: move forward and stay positive." I couldn't agree with that more, Ricky. The injury really sucks, but it's not the end of the world, or even the end of your career, and you certainly have the work ethic necessary for excellent rehab: you're the same guy, after all, who went to shoot around by yourself at the Target Center on the very first night you arrived in Minnesota. Sports have a funny way of skewing the perspectives of both participants and fans, causing us to lose all sense of proportion. Your buddy Pau Gasol referred to this effect when he spoke about your injury: "It's a tough one to swallow, and it makes me laugh about my situation. You know? About my trade and no trade and how that makes me feel. When you [tear] an ACL, that's when you really feel bad and that's a lot worse than being mentioned in trades and potentially play somewhere else. No. Health is always the main thing and that's why everything is so relative in life." He's right, of course. Everything is so relative in life. And he expressed this with a wisdom we might not expect from a seven foot NBA player speaking in his second language. But here's the thing, and I think you know it, though others may have briefly forgotten: even your injury is only relatively a big deal. On ESPN's website, one blogger noted that it was "unspeakably unfortunate" for Spain that you wouldn't get to play for the national team this summer, and also mentioned the following: "Had Rubio been a freak athlete, the tragedy of his injury would have been more than too much to bear." Unfortunate is the perfect word for this situation, but unspeakably? You and I both know that there are some unspeakably unfortunate things in this world, Ricky, and that a guy not playing in the Olympics isn't one of them. And even if you had been a freak athlete, this "tragedy" would not be "more than too much to bear." You'll be back playing again next year. This is what I mean by losing our sense of proportion. The only true tragedies in sports are when someone dies (or suffers a truly catastrophic injury, like paralysis). This weekend did feature a real sports tragedy, the downhill skier who died during a competition. And here's what the skier's ski coach father said later, in a statement that could've certainly used the language of tragedy, but chose not to: "Ski racing was his life and he enjoyed every moment of it. There are no regrets from anyone because he did what he loved to do." This is a beautiful response to a truly terrible event.

So take heart in all the encouragement you've been receiving—you have a ton of people pulling for you, including a bunch of current NBA all-stars and random folks like me, in random parts of the U.S.—but don't forget to keep your perspective, which you've done admirably so far: "Ok, I got injured in the best moment of my career," you said yesterday on Twitter, "but honestly, 2day im happy thanks to all the support Ive received. I'll come back stronger." Maybe I'm reading too much into it, as I tend to do, but to me that "Ok" is saying, Okay, guys, this is really tough, but it's not that big of a deal. In which case, let me say this: You're gonna be alright, Ricky. And I don't just mean your ACL. We all wish you the best. Can't wait to see you build on your great rookie year with an even better sophomore season.

Sincerely,

Burke

Frank Lloyd Wright Doin' Work

Dear Kobe,

One of my favorite lines from one of my favorite books—This Boy’s Life by Tobias Wolff—is this: “All my life I have recognized almost at a glance those who were meant to be my friends, and they have recognized me.” I love this, the idea that friendship is a destiny that you’re aware of right away with some people, and that you can choose to accept or reject it, like Flannery O’Connor’s idea of grace. And the line can also be related to sports fandom. Maybe you don't know this, Kobe, but all our lives as fans, we recognize almost at a glance which athletes we believe we could be friends with, given the right circumstances. This recognition often informs our cheering, in fact. Like with the last Rockets team to make the playoffs, I could’ve seen myself being friends with Yao for sure, plus Scola and Battier and even their teammate and now yours, the humanitarian formerly known as Ron Artest. (One of my buddies and his wife ran into Scola and Battier at karaoke one night in Houston; they took a picture with Scola, who was wearing a giant t-shirt with Kurt Cobain’s face on it, which proves my point.) And in the current NBA, there are all sorts of dudes I believe I could be friends with: Durant (both of us nerdy UT alums), Roy Hibbert (both of us Parks and Recreation fans), Blake Griffin (I enjoy those commercials), and your teammate Luke Walton (Grateful Dead), just to name a few. And here's the thing, Kobe: though you are an interesting and super-intelligent guy, I have never once thought I could be friends with you, under any circumstances. Yes, you made that great reference to Black Swan (a movie I still haven’t seen) last season while talking about Pau. Yes, I’m impressed with your ability to give interviews in multiple languages. Yes, your turnaround fadeaways are truly a work of art. Yes, you’re one of the greatest players of all-time (and we all secretly want to believe we can relate to greatness). But you’re also kind of an asshole, Kobe. I’m not going to cite all the reasons I think you’re an asshole, except to say that it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the rape trial (for which you were acquitted, after all) or the prima donna stuff I read in The Last Season. No, it has much more to do with the way, earlier in your career, whenever you got knocked down on a foul, you would sit up and cross your arms while making the most arrogant face possible, and then keep this pose even as your teammates held their hands out to pick you up. That's what I mean by asshole, Kobe. And besides your beautiful fadeaways, this is the image that I believed defined you as a basketball player.

Wonderful Elegance! No Good at All!

Dear Mr. Morey,

My plan was to watch last night’s two huge, meaningless, self-congratulatory spectacles, and then write you a letter about which NBA All-Stars and Oscar nominees I believe to be overvalued, since I know from reading your Twitter messages that you’re a movie fan and since assessing value is one of your specialties. After all, you're the NBA’s version of Billy Beane (by reputation, at least). I planned to devote space to discussing Aaron Sorkin in particular. In 2011 you wrote about Moneyball for Grantland—though you hadn't yet seen the movie, an unfortunate approach—and the year before, on Twitter, you weighed in on The Social Network, praising Rooney Mara and Andrew Garfield, but disliking the movie overall: "1D characters & should celebrate hard work & smart execution more." (No other GM in NBA history has ever used a phrase like “1D characters.” Another reason I’m glad you run my favorite team.) I was going to say that Sorkin’s work is extremely overvalued, that he makes good drama at the expense of reality, which is questionable since he writes about real people. From there I'd talk about the other Best Picture nominees I believed to be overvalued, even ones that I enjoyed. But first I wanted to see how the night actually unfolded. And now that both the game and the awards are over, with nothing very interesting occurring during the game and two movies I haven’t seen winning most of the awards (The Artist and Hugo), I realize I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up. I'd promise myself that I won’t watch either event next year, except I always do that, and anyway, the All-Star Game’s in Houston next year. Still, after spending way too much time thinking about which movies didn’t deserve any accolades, I’m reminded of something the great Houstonian Donald Barthelme writes at the end of his story "The Party": "Is it really important to know that this movie is fine, and that one terrible, and to talk intelligently about the difference? Wonderful elegance! No good at all!"

Carmelo 2.0

Dear Carmelo,

By the time you read this, you will have returned to the lineup, I assume. I’m writing after having watched Jeremy Lin score 28, along with 14 assists, in a win against the Mavs, without you. More turnovers, but still: the kid was pretty sensational, again. To paraphrase Office Space, the Knicks haven’t exactly been missing you, Carmelo. In the history of professional sports, has there ever been a situation like yours, where a team’s fans are openly fearing the return of their franchise player? Surely not. I’m no Carmelo fan—cards on the table—but those fears are stupid. You’ll make the Knicks better in far more ways than you’ll make them worse. (Yeah, Lin's scoring will go down, but so will the turnovers, I bet. And defenses won't be able to key on him as easily.) Stop listening to what people say about you on Twitter or in the papers. In fact, cancel your Twitter account, Melo. This blog canceled its Twitter account a few weeks ago, much to the chagrin of our four followers, and it felt glorious. Whatever happens in your first few games back, bad or good, don’t worry about it. The only thing that matters now is the playoffs, and putting yourself in a position to make a run in the postseason. And the beautiful thing for you guys is that the Knicks are suddenly a team that can actually make a big run, if everybody's healthy. Here’s something I never thought I’d say: I’ll be pulling for you, Carmelo. But I need to get a few things off my chest, before I do.

The Jeremy Lin Experience

Dear Coach D'Antoni,

Let's take a trip in the mental time machine to Friday, February 3rd, 2012. By the end of the night, your Knicks had suffered their 11th loss in the last 13 games. The NYC tabloids were saying you could be fired by the end of the weekend. Your team had absolutely zero chemistry. You had no competent point guard. Allow me to quote an article written around this time by New York magazine's excellent Will Leitch: "The Knicks are unquestionably a disaster right now...There is a short window for D'Antoni to survive, riding mostly on 33-year-old Baron Davis returning from his injuries to play the point the way a D'Antoni team requires...But considering the truncated season and the lack of practice time available, that seems highly unlikely. Whether it comes after this season or as early as this week, the end for D'Antoni appears nigh." Nobody disagreed with this assessment.

Remember that February 3rd, Mike? Recall, too, the Jeremy Lin of that night, who scored two points for you in six minutes of PT, and whose contract wouldn't be guaranteed if the Knicks cut him within a week, a distinct possibility. What if someone would've told you then, after that loss, that the very next night Jeremy Lin would score 25 and add 7 assists in a win over the Nets? What if someone told your February 3rd self that you'd soon be inserting Lin into the starting lineup, and that in his first three starts he'd score more points than any player since the NBA/ABA merger in 1976, and that you'd win each of these games? And what if on February 3rd this person told you that on the following Friday your Knicks would beat the Lakers for the first time in five seasons, without Carmelo or Amar'e, and that in the victory Jeremy Lin would score 38, the most points against L.A. in the Garden by any Knick in the last 25 years? What if somebody told you on that awful February 3rd that in a week's time you'd be referring to your team's chemistry semi-sincerely as a "love fest," and that with Lin in the lineup, your other guys--Chandler, Jeffries, Novak, Shumpert, Fields--would start playing much better, too? And what if this clairvoyant also told you that 24 hours after the L.A. game, coming off the exhilaration and exhaustion of his performance against the Lakers, Jeremy Lin would put up 20/8/6 against the T-Wolves while having an off night and that he'd make the go-ahead free throw at the end, sealing your sixth straight victory and concluding the most unlikely week of basketball for any player in NBA history? Seriously, Mike. What would you say? What the heck would you think? And if you knew for an absolute fact that all this would truly come to pass, how delighted would you be?

That Golden Company

Dear Paul George,

It recently came to my attention that you grew two inches in between this season and last. In the city of Super Bowl XLVI, the city of the Indiana Pacers, this has apparently been common knowledge for some time, but I only heard about it in the last two weeks or so. I was fascinated: Who gets taller as a pro? That's crazy. Before I heard about the growth spurt, your half-the-Beatles name had only vaguely registered on my fan radar, but after that I started paying more attention. And just in time: In last week's games, I saw two spectacular highlights from you. I really wish I would've seen these plays live, but ESPN and TNT aren't interested in broadcasting the Pacers. (Paul, I've already spoken to other people about the difference between seeing a play happen in real time and seeing the highlight, but let me harp on it some more: it's like the difference between stumbling across one of your favorite obscure songs on the radio and playing it yourself on iTunes.) Still, I was super-impressed with the highlights: Your double pump reverse against the Nets would've been the dunk of the week if Lebron hadn't jumped over John Lucas III to finish a one-handed alley and if Blake Griffin wouldn't have done whatever crazy thing he did above Kendrick Perkins. But your dunk wasn't even last week's most impressive Paul George highlight. Against the Mavs, you ran the length of the court, caught up to Jason Terry on a fast break, and made one of the best rejections I've seen this year, sending Terry falling into the base of the hoop just by the force of the (clean) block, and then--THEN--while Terry was still lying there, you ran the length of the court the other way, caught a skip pass in the corner and nailed a three, your sixth of the game. That has to be the first time in NBA history that a dude has blocked someone on a fast break and then hit their sixth three pointer in a game. Incredible. But not as incredible as the fact that the play might not have happened if you hadn't grown two inches over the off-season.

I'm Learning, Man. That's My Horse Tutor.

Dear Shaq,

When I first heard you'd signed with TNT, I was happy for you, happy you wouldn't end up in the purgatory that is ESPN's NBA coverage, and excited for the basketball-and-humor-loving public that you'd be joining the already glorious Inside the NBA crew. Then, over the holidays at my folks' house, my brother and I watched a few episodes of a show on NBA TV called Open Court, where a bunch of TNT-affiliated former NBA guys--you, Chuck, Kenny, Reggie, Kerr, Steve Smith, C-Webb—just sit in a room and tell stories. The show was great, but you were by far the least entertaining person in the room. Even though Reggie Miller was at one time my favorite non-Houston basketball player, I only find Reggie-the-analyst entertaining when he's announcing a game and uses the term "a long deuce." But even he was more interesting than you. Suddenly I worried that you might ruin Inside the NBA. Then the season started: I caught a few minutes here and there of you at halftime, and what I saw was pretty bad, Shaq. Your voice was often so low as to be nearly inaudible, you made too many sound effects, laughed at your own jokes without making your co-hosts laugh, and when called upon to talk about the games, you seemed stuck in athlete-trying-not-to-say-anything-interesting mode. Admittedly, I only had a small sample size of your performances, but people were hammering you on Twitter, too: Shaq is boring! Shaq makes Kevin McHale seem entertaining! Shaq just said Rudy Gay could be as good as Lebron and Wade! Shaq just called Ricky Rubio the Italian Pete Maravich! Suddenly I couldn't remember: Were you ever that interesting? Or was the pressure making you uninteresting? I hoped it was the latter. It was like someone had brought you to a great party and said, "Hey, everybody, listen up. This is my friend Shaq. He's really hilarious," and because of this introduction you froze up and every prosaic thing you said disappointed the attendees and the vibe of the party was ruined.

Being someone who has frozen under pressure in many different pursuits, I felt like I could explain the problem: You hadn't found your freedom. I don't know if you ever listen to NPR, Shaq, but here's Philip Roth from an interview with Terry Gross on Fresh Air a few years back, talking about his novel The Human Stain and its narrator:

Yao We Can Believe In

Dear Yao,

First of all, Happy Chinese New Year. I hope the Year of the Dragon is truly a great one for you. And with that in mind, let me speak to you about less happy subjects. The day after I heard the news about your old teammate Mutombo and his alleged involvement in a Congolese gold-smuggling scandal, I read this AP headline: "Yao Ming goes into politics in China." I'm not gonna lie to you, Yao: this troubled me, especially coming on the heels of the Mutombo story. But I looked into the details, and it wasn't like you were pulling a Prokhorov; you were just joining a committee that makes recommendations to the government but has no actual political power. Yes, this committee has a scary Orwellian name--Chinese People's Political Consultative Conference Shanghai Committee--but your spokesperson noted that "Yao wants to use his influence to do good deeds for society, but not to seek a political position." If there's anyone the public can't trust, it's a spokesperson, but still: this made me feel better. Even more comforting, NBC's Behind the Wall website ran a picture of you attending your first meeting, doggedly paying attention in a turtleneck, while the other committee members in the audience around you, all of them elderly, slept. Two old men in your row appeared to be resting their heads against each other as pillows. Nothing sinister here. But it's still politics, Yao. And you're young; you won't be content making recommendations among sleeping geriatrics forever, will you? And does one even choose to "go into politics" in China, or is one chosen? (I do know people can go into jail for speaking frankly about politics there. I've heard of Liu Xiaobo and Ai Weiwei, at least enough to find them quickly on Wikipedia.) These questions worry me, Yao. So while I'm not in full panic mode about this recent news, I fear it could still mean an eventual change in the Yao Ming we all love and admire.

Special Emergency Letter: Conflict Gold

Dear Mutombo,

I never thought I'd be writing you again so soon. I don't know what to say. Four tons of Congolese gold? Militias? Corporate jets? Money-laundering? Two bags containing 6.6 million dollars in cash? Local generals? PowerPoint presentations? Purported customs facilities? Confidentiality? Highest discretion? Armed soldiers? Warlords? Did you, Mutombo, really set up a deal to sell a thousand pounds of conflict minerals within a few weeks of meeting with the State Department to bring more attention to how the illicit sale of conflict minerals has ravaged your homeland? Do you really want to add your name to the ever-growing list of Public Figures Who Secretly Do the Very Thing They Speak Out Against? Is the Mutombo family that hard up for money? Were you going to use the money to build another Congolese hospital? Would that make it okay, or at least a little okay? Do we all have as many sides to our personalities as you do, Mutombo (i.e. the gold-smuggling side, the Gold-Club-prostitution-trial side, the help-reduce-polio-and-build-hospitals humanitarian side, the finger-wagging-trash-talker side, the teach-Yao-Ming-about-fine-wine side, the exasperated-at-the-DMV side)? Are you greedy? Are you a money-hungry humanitarian or a money-hungry man posing as a humanitarian, or neither? Say it ain't so, Deke. Say it ain't so! We're not surprised at all anymore when athletes get accused of illegal activities--I mean, ESPN runs a crime ticker at the bottom of the screen during all programming--but damn, Dikembe. This is surprising. This is crazy and awful. This is some Blood Diamond shit. Please tell us you have a decent explanation. Or barring that, that you made a mistake, as people do, but that this isn't indicative of your character as a whole. Please tell us that the exasperated sitcom father I've been imagining you to be is the real Mutombo, and not this international smuggler of conflict gold. Exonerate yourself, Deke. Instead of being another reminder that there'll always be public figures who do exactly what they decry, please be a reminder that people do, occasionally, get falsely accused. 

Sincerely,

Burke 

P.S. I'm sure you already read it, but just so you know, all the words and phrases near the beginning of this letter come from the Houston Chronicle article breaking the news of your involvement in the scandal. When the reporters reached reached you in Atlanta for comment, you said, "I have nothing to say." No, Deke!  Exonerate yourself! 

P.P.S. What am I supposed to do about my bobble-finger doll if you don't ever refute the allegations? Bobble-finger dolls are not supposed to make us have complicated feelings about human nature. 

The Beautiful Game

Dear Ricky Rubio,

First of all, I'm not gonna worry about the language barrier here. You speak decent English, judging from this strange clip I saw on YouTube where you get interviewed by Drew Gooden (?) on what appears to be the set of a fake news show while wearing some sort of sweater that only a Euro could pull off. And anyway, the subject I wanna talk to you about knows no language barriers. I'm talking about delight, Ricky. Or we might refer to a related term: beauty. You know as well as anyone that the most consistently delightful, purely beautiful action in basketball is a nice pass. When people fall back on that old metaphor of basketball-as-jazz, they're not thinking of dunks or blocks or Carmelo holding the ball for almost the entire shot clock and then taking a jumper. They're thinking of nice passes. There’s nothing better than a nice pass, nothing more delightful than watching a great PG improvise beauty. And ever since news came across the Atlantic about a Spanish kid playing pro ball in Europe at the age when we get driver's licenses in the States, we'd heard that you, my friend, were a purveyor of nice passes.

I'll admit, though, that I was skeptical about you. You decided to stay in Spain after you got drafted, and you hadn't been impressive in the Olympics--no double digits in scoring or assists, not even once--and then you had more unimpressive numbers in the Spanish League last year, averaging well under double digits in both categories. I understood that you were still just a kid, with room to grow, but how could you be a special player in the NBA if you couldn't even be a special player in Spain? It didn't seem possible. It isn't possible, really. Let me speak to you in soccer terms. Your situation would be like a decent bench player in the MLS--you know the MLS?--moving to Europe and dominating the Premier League. Or La Liga, if you prefer. Or let's just say the Champions League. Anyway, that would never, ever happen, correct?

No Joke, No Ochocinco

Dear Mr. World Peace,

Ever since I heard that you once applied for a job at Circuit City while you played for the Bulls, listing Jerry Krause as your reference, I've been a Ron Artest fan. (I didn't hear this story until years after it happened, and years after you punched a fan in the stands in Detroit and became a go-to emblem of everything bad about the NBA.) I've always respected those rare people who do whatever strange things they want to do, despite enormous pressures to do otherwise. Probably because I've never been like that myself, though I wish I could be. If I was an NBA player, I would never apply to work at Circuit City. If I was an NBA player, I would never show up to practice in a bathrobe, as you once did. I would never send a Twitter message asking if anybody wants to play football on the beach, and then actually show up and play football with random people. I would never thank my psychiatrist in the post-game interview immediately after winning the NBA Finals. I would never auction off my championship ring for charity.

I love you for all this, Metta. But I've gotta admit: Even though I've been a Ron Ron fan for years now, I haven't always taken you seriously. And I'm not the only one. Over the last few years, the American basketball-watching public has treated you like our entertaining-but-ultimately-crazy friend. You liven things up, but we wouldn't let you watch our kids. We wouldn't seriously ponder any of your advice. We wouldn't put our reputations on the line by recommending you for a job at Circuit City. And when you changed your name to Metta World Peace, we began to take you even less seriously. We snickered when the Times was obligated to refer to you as "Mr. World Peace." We chuckled during the preseason when we came across sentences like this on ESPN.com: "Lakers Coach Mike Brown is moving World Peace to the bench this season to try to make up for the loss of Odom..." The name change seemed to complete your transition from being reviled to being a punch line.

Or at least that's what I thought--until I watched the Rockets/Lakers game last Tuesday and had an epiphany.

Momma, There Goes That Man

Dear Coach Jackson,

I always felt respectful indifference towards you as a player (except for some mild curiosity about your free throw routine), but after you teamed up with Van Gundy in the announcing booth a few years ago, I started feeling real affection for both of you guys, the same kind of affection I felt for, say, Coach Taylor and Buddy Garrity in Friday Night Lights. The network you worked for, ABC/ESPN, produces the single most boring halftime show in the history of televised sports, but listening to you and JVG (and Mike Breen) during games was truly a pleasure. I mean that. When you guys were announcing together, I enjoyed blowouts nearly as much as close games, because Van Gundy would go off script even more than usual and start talking about the Royal Wedding or something, and then you'd respond with feigned incredulity and exaggerated disapproval to whatever he said. It was great. (It's always fun--and moving--to watch two characters on TV hide their affection for each other underneath gruff exteriors. When one of them finally shows their true feelings, if only for a brief moment, it's hard not to get a little teary, there on your couch). Jeff Van Gundy's a smart and hilarious dude--something I didn't fully realize when he was moping around Houston as our coach, with bags under his eyes from watching too much tape--and you were his perfect straight man. You guys were much better than any Buddy Cop movie combo of the past decade; I'd much rather watch you two than the guys in Cop Out or that movie with Samuel L. and the dad from American Pie, which didn't even seem like a real movie, or even the combo in The Other Guys. (And I'm sure you're like me, Mark, and you pretended to like The Other Guys as you left the theater, so you wouldn't hurt anybody's feelings or feel like you wasted ten bucks, but cards on the table: that movie wasn't funny.) The point is, I loved the dynamic between you two, loved for instance that one time during a Suns game when Van Gundy started talking about how he'd gone to Spring Training that week with his parents and how his mom and dad had been kind enough to pay for his hotel room and you said, "You let your parents pay for your hotel room? You're a grown man." I also loved the tone you used every time you addressed Van Gundy as "Coach," the real respect and history in your voice, a tone similar to the one I expect President Obama's former body man (and former Duke basketball player) Reggie Love will use whenever he says "Mr. President" many years from now, as they play golf. I also loved that whenever you made an astute basketball observation, Van Gundy would say, "Somebody give this man a head coaching job!" Watching at home, we could sense that you really did want a coaching job, and that Van Gundy was sincere in promoting you. Which is why I was excited in June when you got the Golden State job (even though you've never coached at any level) and why I'll be cheering for you this season. We've grown to know and love you and Van Gundy. I'll be rooting for you to surmount any obstacles in your path during this new spin-off with the Warriors.

With that in mind, let me suggest a few things.

Special Bonus Letter: There's Crime Everywhere

Dear Lou Williams,

Earlier this week you claimed that a man with a gun attempted to rob you, but that you ended up treating him to McDonald's instead. "There's crime everywhere," you told the Daily News. "I was debating whether to pull off to help the guy. The gun was already out. He did all the talking, and we came up with a solution before I could really say much. I treated him to McDonald's." I'm writing, Lou, because I'm confused by your account. You were debating whether to pull over, even though the guy had a gun out? That's not smart at all. And then, when you pulled over, the guy with the gun did all the talking and y'all "came up with a solution"? That sounds like you actually did get held up. It sounds like he held you up at gunpoint and forced you to buy him McDonald's. You got off easy, Lou, but don't spin it like it was your choice. It was the guy with the gun's choice, it seems to me. And the strangeness of your account of this robbery-turned-McDonald's-trip doesn't end there, Lou. In the same article about the incident, you say the following: "A guy tried to rob me but decided not to because of whatever I do in the community. He's a Lou Williams fan, so he didn't rob me." Since you claim you didn't say much, I'm assuming he recognized whatever you do for the community on his own. Something along these lines: "Give me all your mon--wait a second. Aren't you Lou Williams? You do a lot for the community..." This scenario is hard to imagine, Lou. Maybe I'm wrong--I don't follow the 76ers and haven't been to Philly in a while--but I don't remember ever hearing your name before this incident, even though I watched a couple Sixers playoff games last year, so I'm surprised to find that there's such a thing as "a Lou Williams fan." My cursory research tells me that you're not a starter and that you didn't play in college. I suspect that if the McDonald's story is true, and it very well may be, then this gentleman with the gun might be the Lou Williams fan. In which case, you got lucky, Lou. Very lucky. I'm truly glad you're okay, but what I'm getting at is this: Where is this man, the one who was about to rob you until he recognized you and appreciated whatever you do for the community? Where is he? Produce the robber, Lou. We want to believe you, but we need to see this man and hear his side of the story.

Sincerely,

Burke Nixon

P.S. In my cursory research, I also discovered that the motto on your Twitter page is the following: "Humble as they come...real as they get..." Come on, Lou. You should know that the very nature of the phrase "humble as they come" means that you are not as humble as they come. That phrase is literally a humble brag.

P.P.S. If the gunman has already come forward in the local Philadelphia media and your story has been corroborated, I apologize for this letter. Also, if you continue to average twenty a game like you've done so far in this young season, I'm sure there'll be many more Lou Williams fans. I wish you the best.