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:
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
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?
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?
Sunday, January 8, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
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.
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.
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.
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