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.