tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83620290454936725572023-11-15T11:55:28.044-05:00Dear Dikembe: Open Letters to the NBAWeekly letters written during those innocent days when Dwight Howard wasn't associated with the Lakers, Mark Jackson wasn't associated with strippers/blackmail, and Mutombo wasn't associated with conflict diamonds. On indefinite hiatus this season to focus on HARD WORK AND DEDICATION. Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-26545822127066707282012-07-18T11:59:00.000-04:002012-07-18T12:29:24.835-04:00Special Angry Guest Letter: Leaving New York<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Dolan:</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ve removed the greeting that usually begins these letters. <i>Dear</i>. 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.</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">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--<i>any</i> 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 <i>betrayed</i>. You’ve bitten down hard on our hearts.</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Bill Boyle</span></div>Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-27717509107241375242012-06-24T16:59:00.003-04:002013-03-19T14:12:25.620-04:00Learning From the KingDear LeBron,<br />
<br />
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. <i>Everyone</i> 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. <br />
<br />
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 <i>should</i> 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. <br />
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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. <i>LeBron was an arrogant asshole, then he was humbled, became a great guy, and won a championship</i>). But that doesn’t mean you <i>haven’t</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>we</i> 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 <i>had</i> 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.<br />
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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 <i>you</i> know it’s not. I plan to put a HARD WORK AND DEDICATION sign next to my desk. <br />
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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: <i>actually making it happen</i>.<br />
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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 <i>SportsCenter</i> 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. <i>Two weeks ago</i>, 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.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
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Burke<br />
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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.<br />
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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.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-76492477884989450532012-06-10T17:46:00.000-04:002012-06-24T17:01:26.305-04:00Basketball ReasonsDear Steve Kerr,<br />
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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 <i>Inside the NBA</i> 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.<br />
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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 <i>brilliant stuff</i>.” 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 <i>and</i> 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 <i>44 points and 24 boards</i>. 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.<br />
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Even though you didn’t announce the Eastern finals, Steve, I’m 100% sure you were just as thrilled by it as I was, knowing how much you love the game. And, man, I hate to see Rondo exit the stage most of all. Let’s remember that epic Game 2 performance in defeat (44 points, 10 assists, 8 boards) and the game 3 and 4 performances in victory, and the fact that in Game 7 Rondo led the Celtics in <i>points, rebounds, and assists</i> (22/14/10). The guy was freaking ridiculous. I hope we keep that in mind for a while. Let the other losing players cease to exist until next year, but not Rondo. Remember his fake behind-the-back in Game 3? The one that made Udonis Haslem run the <i>exact opposite direction</i> as Rondo drove in for an uncontested layup? Oh, man. And remember that pass in Game 4, the one-handed bounce pass? The one to a cutting Pierce that Rondo bounced right past LeBron’s feet? The one that made Mike Breen say, “Another <i>beauty</i>!” and that made Van Gundy respond, “No, no. That. Does not. Do it. Justice”? The one where you can watch the replay multiple times and <i>still</i> not see the angle and opening that Rondo saw? I mean, how great were those two plays, Steve? Watching the Spurs score 120 on the Thunder was a reminder of the pure joy of watching great basketball, and watching those two plays by Rondo was the same exact thing on a micro-level. Those plays belong with Starks’s dunk in the Playoff Highlight Hall of Fame. And even though the Spurs and Celts lost—I was pulling for both, by the way—let’s not forget how damn good they were at times, and how good Rondo was almost all the time.<br />
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Drama is obviously one of the things that makes sports great. The drama of not knowing how it's gonna end, the characters, the conflict. The narratives surrounding the game. That’s why the Olympics always gives you all those background stories before they show you the event, right? But sometimes it seems like we get so caught up in the drama surrounding the game that we forget the <i>actual</i> game. There’s something to be said for those times when the game is enough, when the actual performance on the field of play is so brilliant that we don’t need any other stories. And during these conference finals, the actual games were enough. LeBron played so well that we could forget all the chatter and debate and schadenfreude and just admire his game for once. Durant played so well that we just wanted Lil Wayne to go away when he called the Thunder organization racist for not giving him last-minute floor seats (and when Ryan Seacrest showed up in OKC floor seats the following game). During the regular season, yeah, we needed stories and debates. We needed, for example, Wizards players who spent ten thousand dollars on lottery tickets (i.e. Chris Singleton, who said it was “either that or blowing it in the clubs”). But that’s because we had to deal with the tedium and mediocrity of the regular season and the existence of teams like the Wizards. Now, though, we don’t need Lil Wayne or Seacrest or Chris Singleton and his ten thousand losing lottery tickets. The basketball, for once, is enough. And let’s salute the Spurs and the Celtics—especially Rajon—for helping making that possible. It's been pretty dang fun. And the best part is we get a couple more weeks of potential brilliance. Thunder vs. Heat? The two current best players in the world going against each other? Oh, man. I feel like a teenager again.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
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P.S. In the ‘93 Finals, MJ had 50+ in one game, 40+ in three games, and 30+ in the other two games. Something along those lines from Durant or LeBron would be nice.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-40698608752197357322012-05-29T18:13:00.002-04:002012-06-10T18:25:56.090-04:00The Inclination to Speed UpDear Russell, James, and Kevin,<br />
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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:<br />
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<i>10:45</i> <i>James Harden offensive foul</i><br />
<i>10:04 Russell Westbrook enters the game for Daequan Cook</i><br />
<i>9:48 Russell Westbrook misses 19-footer</i><br />
<i>9:30 Kevin Durant defensive rebound</i><br />
<i>9:08<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Russell Westbrook misses 10-footer</i><br />
<i>8:57<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>James Harden defensive rebound</i><br />
<i>8:55<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>James Harden offensive foul</i><br />
<i>8:12<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Russell Westbrook misses layup</i><br />
<i>7:41<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Kevin Durant offensive foul </i><br />
<i>7:31 Kevin Durant defensive rebound</i><br />
<i>6:54<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Kevin Durant defensive rebound</i><br />
<i>6:37<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Kevin Durant misses 24-foot three point attempt</i><br />
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During all this time, as you guys know, the Spurs were hitting shots. Twenty seconds after Kevin’s missed three pointer, Ginobili made a layup to put the Spurs up by three—a twelve point swing in less than six minutes. And that was the game. What happened? Like I said, I believe you guys started forcing it, as evidenced by all the offensive fouls and the missed jumpers. You became <i>overeager</i>. And so here’s my advice for the three of you, based on my own personal experience: Whenever you feel the inclination to speed up, that’s exactly when you should slow down.<br />
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I know what I’m talking about, fellas. Trust me. Many times in my life I’ve made the mistake of speeding up under pressure, and I’ve always paid a price for it. In fact, the whole reason I was in New Orleans this weekend was for my buddy’s wedding, and at the wedding I was a reader, and I had a major case of not following my own advice about slowing down, and the results were not good. Here’s what happened: I’m standing in the wings during the ceremony—which was beautiful, by the way—and I’m waiting to step up to the podium and do my reading. The pastor looks over at me, smiles, and gives me a little nod. Because I was nervous—feeling the pressure, as you guys were in the fourth quarter—I took this to be my cue and stepped up to the podium. Unfortunately, this happened to be during the middle of a vocal solo. A guy was singing, very beautifully, from the balcony. And I started reading <i>while he was still singing</i>. I said, “A reading from the book of John …” and declared which chapter and verses I was going to read, and then the pastor left the bride and groom to rush over to me and whisper, “Maybe you should wait until the song is over.” I’ve been told that this was picked up by the microphone. So, in front of a crowd of I’m guessing five hundred people in this beautiful church, I had to abort my reading, back away from the podium, return to where I’d been standing, and listen to the soloist finish. When I first stepped up to read, I was only vaguely aware of the music, but standing there afterwards, I could hear the music very clearly. I can assure you, fellas, that it was the longest song I’d ever heard. Then I introduced the verse again and did my reading. When I got back to my seat, my wife’s face was redder than I’d ever seen it, which I took to be a bad sign. On the way out I received a bunch of curious looks from people I didn't know. I’d provided the only flaw in an otherwise incredibly lovely wedding. Luckily the bride and groom are cool enough that they just laughed at me. But still.<br />
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Why am I telling you guys this? Because I wish I’d have been fortunate enough to receive the advice I’m giving you. If some wise old man would’ve told me, just before the ceremony, to remember to slow down whenever I felt like speeding up, then none of this would’ve happened. The pastor would’ve nodded at me and when I felt the urge to rush to the podium, I would’ve paused. I wouldn't have been so dang overeager. I would’ve waited an extra beat or two, looked at my surroundings, and said to myself, <i>There’s a dude singing on the balcony. There’s music playing. Now is not the time. Slow down.</i> Instead, I felt the pressure and sped up, the worst thing you can do. And I believe you guys did the same thing. You thought, <i>Crap, they’re coming back. It’s the fourth quarter. I have to do something quick or we’re gonna lose the lead. </i>And that’s exactly when you should’ve slowed down, right? Let the game come to you, as MJ used to say.<br />
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Okay, I hear what you might be saying: There’s a huge difference between <i>telling yourself </i>to act a certain way and actually acting that way. Believe me, I know. Otherwise I'd have told myself to dunk a basketball by now. But it still helps to know what to focus on. Harvey Dorfman, the late baseball psychologist that all the Major Leaguers swore by, emphasized the importance of telling yourself to focus on certain things during pressure situations ("The great players control their thinking; the poor ones are controlled by theirs"). He told pitchers to step off the mound and talk to themselves, hitters to step out of the box and do the same. So next time I find myself under pressure—crossing the street, trying to remove a stroller from a crowded restaurant, speaking in public—I’m gonna tell myself to slow down. You guys should do the same, for the rest of this series and beyond. And maybe we <i>had</i> to make the mistake of speeding up before we can finally learn to slow down. MJ said to let the game come to you, but he didn’t really learn how to do that until forcing it against the Pistons, right? Maybe the experiences we had this weekend were good for us, and we’ll learn from these mistakes. Then again, as my grandfather once told me, “Son, you can’t learn everything by mistakes. Some things you just have to <i>know</i>.”<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. Last week, after watching you guys run the Lakers out of the gym, I wrote an entire letter comparing you three to the Beatles, but I ended up scrapping it because it was obviously written under jetlag-induced delirium. It was the NBA open letter equivalent of the <i>Yellow Submarine </i>cartoon. Also, there was no Ringo. James was George, obviously (i.e. potential to be an all-time great third option, etc.). I won’t say whether Russell was John or Paul, because it was a stretch. But I will say this: This Spurs series will go a long way in determining if this season’s Thunder team is in their <i>Beatles for Sale</i> or <i>Rubber Soul</i> period. I've narrowed it down to those two.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-26951159819120397362012-05-17T18:48:00.000-04:002012-05-30T11:11:13.613-04:00Joining the Party<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">Dear Mr. Bogut,</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">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. </span></div>
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<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">My preferred mode of traveling is to pretend that I actually live in the place I’m visiting. I don’t like feeling like a tourist, Andrew. That’s the worst. I like walking around and imagining that I actually have a daily existence here. The defining emotion of traveling to a great city, for me, is </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>longing</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">. You know what I’m talking about? For every hour I spend in a great park or pub or street or restaurant or coffee shop or bookstore or beach or bakery—and Sydney has all of these in abundance—I inevitably have the same bittersweet thought: “Imagine if I got to do this </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>all the time</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">…” The magic of visiting Paris or New York or Sydney isn’t the sights—it’s imagining a life in these places. Right? You know what I’m talking about? Maybe for you it’s different. Maybe your longing is just for home, for Australia during the endless months of the season, or for Croatia, your ancestral home. Maybe when people travel all the time for work, they just long to be in their real home, instead of imagining an alternate one. I don’t know. I’m just saying that this is how it is with me. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">And a couple days ago something painful happened that is related to all this, Andrew. Let me set the scene: I was sitting at the same coffee shop where I’m sitting now, at “my” table outside in the little courtyard next to the brick sidestreet, drinking my large Flat White (possibly the greatest coffee in the world) and typing on my computer, trying to convince myself and everyone else that I was a regular. A middle-aged Australian guy who was leaving the coffee shop with his wife stopped by my table, nodded at my laptop, and said, “Excuse me, mate. You look like you know about this sort of thing…Where’s the best big computer shop around here?” It’s not relevant that he thought I looked like a guy who knows about computers, so I’m going to ignore that. I don’t see myself as that guy. (And I’ve had this problem before. One time a drunk lady after a Houston Texans football game told me and my buddy that we looked “like IT guys.” I’m sensitive about this.) The important thing to focus on here is that the Australian dude asked <i>me</i> for advice about where to find something in Sydney. When he asked, I did the same thing I’ve always done on the rare occasions when someone asked me for directions in a city I’m visiting: I waited as long as I could before I finally had to use my dumb American accent to say the most dreaded phrase in my traveling lexicon: “Sorry...I don’t live here.” Before I said this, though, I scrunched up my face in an imitation of thinking, like I was trying to recall a good computer place, even though I wasn’t. I did this so I could at least enjoy, for a few more seconds, the privilege of being treated like a local. But then the charade ended, I revealed myself as a tourist, and he and his wife walked away. Except here’s what I realized as soon as they had turned the corner: I <i>do</i> know where some big computer stores are in Sydney! I know <i>exactly</i> where some big computer stores are. Me and my wife have been pushing a stroller along these streets every day for two weeks. I know them well, or at least as well as someone can know them in two weeks. I could’ve said, “Yeah, mate, there’s a huge, three-story Apple store on George Street in the CBD.” (That’s the Central Business District, but I’d use the abbreviation, of course.) And I could’ve added, “Also, you might want to try Pitt Street, a couple streets over from George. There’s a lot of shopping over there. They have a couple big computer stores, I think.” Why didn’t I say all this! Instead of pretending to think, I should’ve <i>actually</i> thought, because I could’ve come up with all this, easily. And you know what the middle-aged guy would’ve said? He would’ve said, “Thanks, mate.” And I would’ve said, “No worries.” Damn! My whole trip had led up to that moment, and I choked, Andrew. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">The rest of the time I spent at the coffee shop that morning, I kept redoing the scene in my head, answering the question, instead of acting like an idiot. Then I looked for the guy and his wife on my way back to my brother-in-law’s apartment, but I didn’t see him. And I don’t know how I would’ve brought it up if I had. “Excuse me, are you the guy who asked me about the computer store? What I meant to say was…” It’s not feasible. The whole situation reminded me of <i>The Great Gatsby</i>, except in reverse. I don’t know if you’ve ever read <i>The Great</i> <i>Gatsby</i>, Andrew, but there’s a great moment at the beginning of the book where Nick has just moved to West Egg and he’s feeling lonely and out of place, until a guy stops him on the side of the road and “helplessly” asks for directions to West Egg Village. And here’s the great narration that follows: “I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.” So true, that moment. And that could’ve been <i>my</i> situation, too. I could’ve been an original settler! I could’ve received the freedom of this great neighborhood in Sydney, the Rocks. But I freaking blew it. I’m only here for a few more days and all I can do is hope for a chance to redeem myself. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">I’ve seen the following NBA jerseys one time each during my travels in Sydney: Rose, Wade, Rondo, and LeBron. All of these, from what I gathered by eavesdropping, were being worn by non-Americans. The kid in the Rondo jersey appeared to be German. America seems to be about the third or fourth or even fifth biggest cultural influence on Australia, at least in Sydney, and basketball seems to be about the fourth or fifth most popular sport here. Aussie Rules, rugby, cricket, soccer, tennis…actually, maybe not even fourth or fifth. I was able to watch a couple of Spurs games and half of the Lakers game seven, but besides that, I’ve only followed the playoff news on my phone when there’s Wi-Fi. It’s kind of nice, though. It’s like looking at the ground from a high altitude: everything is miniaturized. The NBA news doesn’t seem so huge. All I see are the scores and not the endless detailed analysis. Maybe this is good for you, too. Maybe being Australian can somehow help you keep more perspective than most professional athletes have. That being said, I have a feeling you’re like me: You miss being part of the playoffs. You miss it as a player and I miss it as a fan, but still. We’re not that different, you and I. Every time I see a score or hear a bit of news about a game, I wish I could’ve experienced it myself. Every time I hear about the Celts or the Spurs having another big game, I wish I could’ve participated in the joy of actually watching the game unfold. When I hear that the Thunder held Kobe and the Lakers scoreless for the last two minutes of a game--the last two minutes!--I wish I could’ve watched them do it as it happened. Same with the Pacers beating the Heat. It’s like the playoffs are a big block party, and I’m missing it. Make no mistake, Andrew, I’d very much rather be at Bondi or Manly Beach than watching TNT or ESPN, but still: I’m looking forward to actually watching some games, joining the block party. And I know you’re glad to be home in Melbourne, but I’m sure you also wish you were part of the party, too. So in conclusion, let me say this: Next year, man. Maybe next year you and the Warriors will be there. As a newly rabid fan of Australia and Australians, I’ll be rooting for you. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">Sincerely,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">Burke</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">P.S. My wife and I saw a store on Oxford Street here that was strictly devoted to Ohio apparel. Dayton University shirts, Indians hats, etc. What’s up with that? Do Australians have an obsession with Ohio? And if so, WHY? Also, Oxford Street is the first street I’ve ever seen in my life with three high-quality bookstores within fifty meters of each other. (I use the metric system now.) Pretty great. And at a stoplight on that street the other day, I saw a tow-truck driver playing a clarinet out the window of his truck. He stopped playing and drove off when the light turned green. It was awesome. </span>Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-34644487533979744582012-05-08T07:35:00.000-04:002012-05-17T19:00:07.244-04:00Our One Noble FunctionDear Coach Popovich,<br />
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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>I’m gonna get mine</i> 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 <i>only</i> 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 <i>appear</i> 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.<br />
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You and R.C. Buford have assembled a group of guys who consistently make the unselfish choices, especially on offense, and it’s a joy to watch. Really is. I’ve seen very few teams share the ball the way this Spurs team shares the ball. It’s awesome. In the two games and change that I saw over the last week, I think I witnessed more possessions where at least four guys touched the ball than ever before in my basketball-watching life. I’ve seen so many possessions where somebody made the <i>extra</i> pass, guys foregoing an acceptable shot so a teammate can get an even more open one. I’m not a coach or a staunch basketball purist; I just like watching exciting basketball more than boring basketball, and this kind of basketball is <i>exciting</i>. Miami and OKC are jawdropping in transition, but the dirty secret of the NBA is that in half court, these marquee teams can be downright boring. But your Spurs team—against their longtime reputation—is exciting almost all the time. The 2012 Spurs run a lot and move the ball really well in transition, but they also make half court look like a pinball machine, passes darting around at all angles. I love it. Your offense this year could be described by this line from <i>On the Road</i>: "We were leaving confusion and nonsense behind and performing our one noble function of the time, <i>move</i>." That's what all your players do. They leave the confusion and nonsense of other NBA teams behind and perform the one noble function of basketball: to move around on offense and defense and move the ball. Just move. Obviously it helps that you have a former superstar bigman who still plays great D and doesn’t care about having the ball in his hands all the time, not to mention a current superstar Frenchman who is as exciting with the ball in his hands as any player in the entire league and who has finally made the unselfish decision to take on the role of the team’s acknowledged go-to guy. And you have Ginobili, who is still Ginobili, only with a slightly bigger bald spot. But my favorite aspect of this Spurs team is all the role players, the unselfish guys who also end up being the recipients of unselfishness: Danny Green, Stephen Jackson, Gary Neal, the redhead Bonner, your extremely veteran-like rookie Kahwi Leonard. I’m hoping to continue to see these guys shoot open threes and layups for the rest of the playoffs. All championship teams have a bunch of good role players, and the Spurs have the best role players of any team I’ve seen this year.<br />
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Now here comes the basketball-as-metaphor-for-life part, Coach. Is it possible that in in life, too, every single decision is a choice between selfishness and unselfishness? This occurred to me recently and kept occurring to me as I've thought about your team and your coaching. I think it may be true. And it’s an idea that scares me, because I think that in this sense I might be more of a Carmelo than a Duncan. (Have you seen the huge painting of Carmelo’s face that Carmelo has in his living room, by the way? You should look it up, Coach. I laugh at it, but then I worry that in my mental living room there’s a similar painting with my face on it.) How many selfish decisions do I make each day because they require less effort? A lot, Coach. A <i>lot</i>. And how many times in my life have I chosen not to help someone out because it left me less open to ridicule? How many decisions have I made based on attention or glory or personal satisfaction? And how many times have I deferred to someone else in a pressure situation so as to avoid blame? You don't wanna know my real answers to all these questions, Coach. Trust me. I don't even really wanna think about it. But I need to, and I appreciate the way your team and your coaching have brought all these questions to mind. And my question to <i>you</i> is this: I know you and the organization make a well-known effort to sign only players who are, in your words, “over themselves,” but besides that, how do you get your teams to play this way? How do you do it, Coach? I need to find out. Because I need to start coaching myself the way you coach the Spurs. No kidding.<br />
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In conclusion, allow me to bring up my favorite line from Owen Wilson’s character in <i>Zoolander</i>: “Sting. Sting would be another person who's a hero. The music he's created over the years, I don’t really listen to it, but the fact that he's making it, I respect that.” Over the last decade and a half or so, the Spurs have been my Sting. I’ve always respected you guys, but I haven't had any interest in watching you play, unless it was to see you get beat by the Rockets. The received wisdom was always accurate for me: the Spurs were truly boring. But not this year. What I love most about what you’ve done this year isn’t simply that you’ve gotten a group of professional basketball players to play unselfishly, as you've done every single year since I was in high school. No, what I love about the job you've done this year is that you’ve gotten your team to play unselfishly and it’s actually <i>fun</i>. It’s fun to watch this Spurs team and it’s obviously fun to be a player on this Spurs team. (I don’t think I’ve ever seen a happier bench.) And this, too, is a basketball-as-life inspiration: Your coaching this year is a reminder that the unselfish decision can be <i>thrilling</i>, that the selfish decision is often less interesting than the unselfish one, though it requires less effort. So thanks for showing me that, Coach, and good luck in the rest of the playoffs. Whether you win or not, these Spurs have truly been a pleasure to behold.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
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P.S. Let's not forget that Parker was the 28th overall pick and Manu was the 57th. I'm not sure you get enough credit for this. There's a lot to be said for a guy who can see talent where no one else can.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-59669771913847650882012-04-30T16:06:00.001-04:002012-05-08T07:53:35.044-04:00Celebrate Older Americans Month<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">who</i>, 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">perfect</i> for you guys: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never Too Old to Play…</i>” 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> 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.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And let's ignore the Rondo situation, because here’s the thing: you guys are gonna have to step up whether he’s playing or not. He played his butt off in Game One before the ejection and the team </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> struggled. The Celtics need you guys. You guys </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> the Celtics. Yeah, Kevin, you turned it on in the second half, but the team needs you for an entire game. Paul, those shots are gonna fall; you’re too relentless of a scorer to stay cold. Ray, you need to come back and play. Yes, I saw your suit and tie—I was at the game, actually—and yes it looked very nice. But you need to play in this series. Your team needs you. They made </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">zero</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> threes without you. Zero! Hobble out there and make a couple threes, Ray. (It’s okay if you miss a few, too, as long as you make some.) Are you guys gonna let the Older Americans in the Western Conference get all the attention? Come on. Step it up. The games in April are over. May is </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> month.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I don’t have any special connection to Boston, but after Rondo’s ejection and the loss, as I exited the arena, I found myself preparing biting comebacks in my head in case some Hawks fan said something to me. Like: “Joe Johnson really earned his hundred mil tonight, huh?” Or: “Why’d you guys drop confetti from the ceiling after winning <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one</i> game in the first round? That’s weird.” Or: “When’s the last time the Hawks made the finals?” But then I remembered that I have no connection to Boston, so this was pointless. And then I also remembered that my own hometown team, the Rockets, barely missed the playoffs again for the third straight year. (I don’t want to talk about it, guys. Too raw.) Here’s the thing, though: in those three years, the Celts have become my adopted team. Every losing sports fan picks an adopted team when their team consistently fails to make the postseason, and sometimes—I’m not gonna lie, fellas—we develop strong feelings for these adopted teams. If our hometown teams are like family, our adopted teams are romantic entanglements. Sometimes it’s brief; sometimes it’s long term. And we adopt particular teams for reasons that are half conscious and half unconscious. In my late teens and early twenties, I was in a serious relationship with Reggie Miller and the Indiana Pacers, even though I’ve never set foot in Indiana. Partly this was because Reggie was skinny and I was skinny and because he played basketball the way I dreamed of playing—making clutch threes and talking smack. (My best friend bought me <em>I Love Being the Enemy</em>, Reggie’s autobiography, for a Christmas gift one year, and I considered it a page-turner.) But this doesn’t explain why I grew to love dudes like Mark Jackson and the Davises and Rik Smits and Jalen and Austin Croshere and rooted for them like I had a stake in their success. I remember being crushed when they lost to MJ in seven and then lying face down on the floor speechless when they lost the 2000 Finals to the Lakers, that same best friend cheering obnoxiously for Kobe. When I finally recovered, I was like, “Why are you cheering for L.A., asshole? You’re not even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">from</i> L.A.” (This all coincided, of course, with weird, dark Rockets years.) After the Pacers’ glory days ended, I didn’t think I’d get involved with another team again, but I fell for the Celtics without even meaning to, just when I thought I couldn't feel anything for the NBA anymore. A few years back I was watching Rondo run point on TV during the regular season and you guys were all moving the ball around, like five passes each possession ending with a layup or three each time, and I thought, “Man, these guys are really fun to watch…and they’re on TV every week.” And I started watching y’all all the time. I never thought, “These guys are my new team!” but I grew you to love all you guys the way one grows to love the cast of a good ensemble drama. My wife and I, almost without our realizing it, became Celtics fans. Rondo became my new Reggie Miller. Eventually I found myself waking up at like 6am in Singapore one morning—long story—taking mass transit and then walking in the rain to my cousin-in-law’s apartment to watch Game 7 of the Finals against the Lakers. When you guys lost, I wanted to lay face down speechless on their floor, but I didn’t. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Why am I telling you guys all this? I don’t know exactly, but maybe to help me explain this: the Big Three (and Rondo) are bigger than just Boston. Seeing you guys and Rondo in person was big for me, a special sports experience. And it was a reminder that you guys, this Celtics core, are one of the great teams of the last decade. It was also a reminder of everything wonderful and problematic about your younger brother Rajon. He was even more impressive in person, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">way</i> more impressive, the quickness, the court-vision, the contortions around the basket, and yet he also made a crazy boneheaded move that might’ve cost you guys a win, if not an entire series. But don’t let that moment cost you, fellas. Rondo has helped you guys age gracefully over the last few years; now it’s time to pick <em>him</em> up. Do it for him and for your fans, hometown and adopted. More importantly, do it for Older Americans everywhere. Inspire them. Make one more run. We’re not ready for this show to come to an end. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sincerely,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Burke </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">P.S. During the final minute of the game, in my despair over Rondo’s ejection and the ensuing loss, I bent down quickly to grab the stuff under my seat and accidentally slammed my head against the metal railing in front of me. I heard a couple Hawks fans behind me say, “Oh shit!” Then they started laughing. I have a red line on my forehead now, like a hyphen. I need you guys to win. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">P.P.S. There was a dude in front of us at the game wearing a Kobe jersey. A Kobe jersey, at a Hawks vs. Celtics game. A grown man! Why would anyone do this? “Hawks/Celtics game tonight? I’m <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">definitely</i> wearing my Kobe jersey.” Only a Kobe fan would proudly wear a jersey that has nothing to do with the game being played. And by</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> the way, the guy who bought me the Reggie autobiography and cheered for Kobe even though he's not from California? He lives in L.A. now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">P.P.P.S. To make this website more accessible to Older Americans, I've decided to increase the font size. We all celebrate this holiday in our own way. </span></span></div>Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-29305836605186292622012-04-23T00:42:00.004-04:002012-04-30T16:59:19.672-04:00Be Nice About It? Be Nice About It?Dear Metta,<br />
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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. <i>Off the bench</i>.) 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.<br />
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The worst part is that there was no tussle, no hard foul, nothing. You were just a man beating his chest in celebration, pumped to have dunked in traffic against two great players. Maybe you were even overjoyed to feel, for a moment, like the young, dominant, pre-therapy Ron Artest. Then Harden got close to you and the chest-thumping became something else. In my naivete, I truly thought that your new name prevented an event like this, so it would be in my best interest to explain it away as inadvertent, as you did after the game, calling it an “unintentional elbow.” But I can’t. The replay shows you raising your shoulder and rearing back your elbow after the chest-thumping, a crazy look in your eye before you nail him. In fact, the replay makes it look almost overly intentional, if that's possible. I mean, you <i>really</i> rear back. And your yelling after the elbow doesn’t help either; the slow-motion footage makes you look like you’re in <i>The Gladiator</i> or something. As you yourself said about the replay a few hours after the game, via Twitter, “OMG…looks bad.” It really does. In real-time it didn’t look nearly as bad, though. In real-time it actually <i>did</i> look inadvertent. And part of me thinks that replay and slow-motion aren’t entirely accurate. Slow-mo can be a lie, in a way. It exaggerates the tiniest gestures. People won’t think about that when they talk about this incident, though.<br />
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And even if the replay exaggerates the malice behind the moment, the fact remains: you were performing a gesture, the chest-thumping, that wouldn’t have hurt anyone if they’d run into you, but then Harden got close and you did something else entirely, something violent, something that gave him a concussion. For the elbow to be called inadvertent, you would’ve had to have been doing the same thing the whole time, and you just weren’t. It wasn’t an accident, Metta. You need to just admit that. But admitting that it wasn’t an accident doesn’t mean it was <i>premeditated</i>. Something can be intentional but only intentional in the moment. A lot of the sports pundits are talking about this situation like you had time to mull it over before you decided to do it. Like it was a failure of <i>logic</i>. That’s BS. It was a terrible decision, obviously, but a decision that was made in a split second, and it’s ridiculous when these people get on TV or the radio after watching the replay a hundred times and talk about it like you had time to consider your actions. “It made <i>no sense</i> for Ron Artest to throw that elbow,” Stephen A. Smith said on ESPN after the game. Apparently Stephen A., in every moment of his life, has only acted in ways that made complete sense. In which case, Stephen A. Smith is a robot. A robot with a very emphatic way of speaking, but still, a robot.<br />
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Cards on the table, Metta. Here’s why I’m sympathetic to your situation and why I resent all the people who are criticizing your decision-making: because I got into an altercation at IKEA yesterday. I’d dropped my wife and child off at the entrance of the IKEA and I was idling in my car, looking up the nearest bar on my phone so that I could go watch the second half of <i>El Clasico </i>while my wife looked for a dresser. I realize this doesn’t make me sound like the best husband or father. Also, I was parked in the emergency vehicle zone, but I was unaware of this at the time, and if an emergency vehicle would’ve pulled up, it would’ve been very easy for me to move. Anyway, Metta, I’d been sitting there idling at the entrance for only a couple minutes and then an IKEA employee, an older man, walked up to my door to tell me to leave. I rolled down my window and I was ready to nod my head and back out, but the guy didn’t just tell me to leave. He started shaking his head a lot and said, “You can’t <em>park</em> here. You can’t <em>park</em> here.” Basically he was acting like we’d had this same conversation a bunch of times before and that I kept ignoring him and parking there. But (1) I wasn’t actually parked; I was idling. And (2) I wasn’t blocking any traffic. And (3) I’d never been to this IKEA before. So I said, “I'm leaving, but you can be nice about it.” Now I understand that this was just a lame, obnoxious comment. I’m not proud of it. But it just came out. It was my incredibly weak equivalent of chest-thumping. Then I started backing out and the guy—he had a Caribbean accent—kept saying, “Be nice about it? Be nice about it?” And I said, “Yeah,” and he said, “I could give you a ticket right now!” By this point I’d backed up all the way, with my window still down, and I actually was blocking traffic. I said, “Are you a police officer?” And he said, “What?” I said, “ARE YOU A POLICE OFFICER?” And he said, “AM I A POLICE OFFICER!” People were watching us now, good people who just wanted to buy furniture. And I yelled, “YOU’RE NOT A POLICE OFFICER, RIGHT? HOW ARE YOU GONNA GIVE ME A TICKET?” That was my equivalent of the elbow to the head. The guy yelled, “YOU TELL ME TO BE NICE. WHY DON’T <i>YOU</i> BE NICE?” It was a good question. That was when I realized that I was in front of an IKEA, yelling at an IKEA employee, acting like a complete dick. I mumbled something about how we should both be nice and then I sped off.<br />
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I’m not usually a yeller, Metta. Nor am I a guy who gets in fights with old men who are just trying to do their job. In fact, I don’t get in many altercations at all. And when I drove off, I was thinking to myself, “What the hell did I just do? Why did I <i>do</i> that?” And I had no idea. It just happened. Does that excuse it? No way. My behavior was inexcusable. But my point here is this: though my experience at IKEA was a reminder that I'm capable of becoming an asshole at any moment, that doesn’t mean I’m not usually a nice guy. Maybe that's the excuse all assholes make, but still. If Stephen A. Smith would’ve seen me, he would’ve said it made no sense for me to yell at that IKEA employee, and he would’ve been right. But I would never <i>choose</i> to act that way. It wasn’t a conscious decision. 99 times out of 100 it wouldn't have happened. And I think the same is true for you: Just because you elbowed another player in the back of the head, a terrible thing to do, doesn’t mean that it was a conscious decision, even if it was intentional in the moment. And it doesn’t mean you’re not a nice guy, a good guy, even a <i>changed</i> guy. Bad decisions are bad decisions, whether they're conscious or not, but your record over the last few years shouldn't be ignored.<em> </em>Malice at the Palace was a culmination; this elbow is an aberration.<em> </em>It's not who you are anymore. You’re gonna hear a lot of negative stuff in the next week or so, and I just want you to remember this, Metta. Beyond that, all we can do now is hope that James Harden and the old man at IKEA forgive us, and that the injury doesn't last long for either of them. <br />
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Sincerely,<br />
<br />
BurkeBurke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-47540845568714760412012-04-15T00:40:00.000-04:002012-04-23T15:34:32.195-04:00Hiking That Big MountainDear Dirk,<br />
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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 <i>and</i> 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.<br />
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My brother was the one who alerted me to the Stones reference and he also brought up a very interesting point. He noticed that the song titles you listed could be read as a subtle comment on the recent Lamar Odom situation. Now I’m not saying that’s what you’re doing here, Dirk, but I’m not saying you’re <i>not</i> doing that either. This interpretation makes a lot of sense for every single one of those songs, when you start thinking about it. But so would a lot of other Stones songs that you didn’t mention (“No Expectations,” “Prodigal Son,” “Jigsaw Puzzle,” “Street Fighting Man,” “Stray Cat Blues,” just from <i>Beggar’s Banquet</i> alone), so I’m not going to indulge myself with this line of thinking any further, out of respect for you and for Odom, whose situation none of us can fully comprehend, not being him. Instead, I'll just quote Metta World Peace on the subject of what Lamar Odom should do with his time now that he’s done for the season. The other day, after suggesting that Odom should be a ball boy (“the first ball boy in the NBA that can play”) or that he should “just be a Boy Scout and wear the outfit,” World Peace said this: “What's the biggest mountain in the world?...He should go hike it. Do something that's never been done.” When one of the reporters mentioned that you, Dirk, hiked the Bavarian Alps in 2007, World Peace replied, “He hiked a big mountain?…I'm talking about the big one. Dirk, he ain't hiking that big mountain. He ain't going on the big one. I'm going on the big one.” Now I don’t know when World Peace changed his mind and decided that he, not Lamar Odom, should climb a mountain, but I do know this, Dirk: A lot of people think you aren’t going to climb the big mountain again this year, metaphorically-speaking. They’ve counted the Mavs out for another big playoff run. As of today, there's not even a clear-cut favorite, but you guys <i>still</i> aren’t in the championship conversation. And to paraphrase Royal Tenenbaum, that’s not right, dammit. You’re the <i>defending champs</i>. Until someone officially knocks the champs off the mountain, there’s always a chance they’ll climb it again. Being a Rockets fan, I know what I’m talking about here. They won their second consecutive championship as a sixth seed. Remember that, Dirk. <br />
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On another note. Have you read Stanley Booth’s <i>The True Adventures of the Rolling Stones</i>? You should definitely read it on your next road trip. Best rock 'n' roll book of all time, in my opinion. (Stanley Booth is just a great writer in general.) I bought Keith’s <i>Life </i>a few months ago, but I haven’t read it yet, except for the part I read in Target while my wife was shopping, about how they would stay up all night partying and recording <i>Exile on Main Street</i> in their French Riviera chateau and then at dawn they’d take a little speedboat to Monaco for breakfast, Keith at the wheel. Reading that in a Target was a somewhat dispiriting experience. Now let me ask you something: why’d you feel the need to note that you liked the version of “Beast of Burden” with Mick singing? What other version is there? Keith doesn’t ever sing that song. Mick sings <i>all</i> the songs you mentioned, so I don’t get it. My iTunes research shows that there’s a Bette Midler version, which I just listened to. Surely you weren’t worried that people would think that this Bette Midler rendition was the one you meant for your list of top five <i>Stones</i> songs? I will say this, though: your choice of songs was great. I can’t argue with those, but the Stones have so many good songs that I couldn’t make a list of five myself. (I certainly wouldn’t take any of your songs off my list, but even if we only stick to the hits, what about “Jumping Jack Flash,” Dirk? What about “Honky Tonk Women”? What about “Satisfaction,” the biggest hit of them all, which still sounds pretty dang fantastic if you hear it on the radio and haven’t heard it in a while?) I can name my top five five albums: <i>Beggar’s Banquet</i>, <i>Let It Bleed</i>, <i>Sticky Fingers</i>, <i>Exile</i>, and <i>Some Girls</i>. But even then, I'm missing some of their all-time best songs. You gotta love those guys. <br />
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Even more than the stuff about the taking the speedboat to Monaco, I've remembered this one particular line from Keith's book ever since I read it in that Target. It's about friendship. I looked it up just now to get the full version. Here it is: “Most guys I know are assholes, I have some great asshole friends, but that’s not the point. Friendship has got nothing to do with that. It’s can you hang, can you talk about this without any feeling of distance between you? Friendship is a diminishing of distance between people. That’s what friendship is, and to me it’s one of the most important things in the world.” Man, that's great. <i>A diminishing of distance between people</i>. I can’t think of a truer definition of friendship than that, Dirk. And I don't know about you, but for me, a lot of the times when I've felt that diminishing of distance, music was involved. Sometimes even the Stones in particular. And even though I canceled my Twitter account and won’t be opening a new one any time soon, I gotta admit that Twitter can be a diminishing of distance between people, too. At least it has been with you and I this week. To conclude, here's one last Keith quote for good measure, about songwriting: “Great songs write themselves. You’re just being led by the nose, or the ears. The skill is not to interfere with it too much. Ignore intelligence, ignore everything; just follow it where it takes you.” I love those last lines, and they’d probably serve as pretty good advice for you guys, too, once the playoffs start. Ignore intelligence, ignore everything. Just follow it where it takes you.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
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P.S. Speaking of rock 'n' roll, have you heard of this band the Alabama Shakes? Wow. How have I not heard about these guys (and gal) until this week? Saw a clip of their performance on Letterman the other day and they were incredible. Might be up your alley, Dirk. I bought their album this morning and I’ve already listened to it about five times today. You never know how this stuff is going to hold up for you over time--that's the amazing thing about the Stones; their best music still sounds just as cool to me as when I first heard it, if not cooler--but man, this album sounds pretty damn great right now.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-69034771180208064732012-04-09T09:19:00.002-04:002012-04-15T01:03:36.825-04:00The Frictionless Lives of the MeekDear LeBron,<br />
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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 <i>has</i> 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 <i>all five positions</i>. 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 <i>King James</i> 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 <i>too often</i>? After you took your talents to South Beach, I never would’ve imagined I’d say this, but you deserve better from us, LeBron.<br />
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The other day I was reading a book called <i>Gallatin Canyon </i>by Thomas McGuane, the great short story writer and 2006 inductee of the National Horse Cutting Hall of Fame, and I stumbled across a line that made me think of you. It comes from a passage about an arrogant, baton-twirling drum major and the crowd’s reaction to watching him perform at a high school football halftime. Here's the line: “As would become habitual for most of us, we wanted either spectacular achievement or mortifying failure, one or the other. Neither of these things, we were discreetly certain, would ever come to us: we’d be allowed the frictionless lives of the meek.” This is your situation—and Tiger’s—in a nutshell. We want, from our superstars, either spectacular achievement or mortifying failure. In the secret hearts of most NBA fans, we’ll be hoping you experience either one or the other in the playoffs this year, and nothing in between. And that’s pretty lame. And even lamer is that we hope for this from the comfort of our frictionless lives, as McGuane beautifully puts it. I’m tired of hearing columnists and announcers and talking heads jabber on about how you need to <i>step up in big games</i>, and <i>turn it on during clutch time</i>. I’m tired of hearing these guys talk about how they don’t see <i>that killer instinct in your eyes</i>. Who are <i>they</i> to say that? Who are they to read your eyes? It’s easy to tell somebody <i>else</i> to turn it on, especially when you’re not in that position yourself. So don’t listen to us, LeBron. We don’t know whereof we speak.<br />
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The way I see it, LeBron, you’re driving a car down a narrow and curvy one-lane road, and when you look in your rearview mirror you see nothing but tailgaters, a long line of tailgaters, millions of them. And these tailgaters are right up on your bumper, pressuring you to speed up. Now, it takes a very special person to ignore all these tailgaters, to maintain the exact same speed that you would’ve driven if nobody else was on the road. I’ve never been able to do that myself. I always speed up to please the tailgaters, even if it’s dangerous. And I’ve never been in a situation like yours, followed by an entire nation of mental tailgaters. In this year’s playoffs, when the line behind you will be longer than ever, my hope is that you’ll be able to ignore all these people and play the exact way you’d play if the sports opinion industry didn’t exist. Your game is more than sufficient; it doesn’t need to speed up in clutch time. If you feel like passing in the fourth quarter, pass. If you feel like shooting, shoot. Whatever you do, just don’t look in your rearview mirror. If you can pull that off, you’ll be an inspiration to everyone who’s ever felt the pressure of tailgaters, mental or literal. Let us all follow our instincts.<br />
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To conclude, let me say this: I have a reasonable suspicion that most NBA fans would be absolutely appalled if they saw the behind-the-scenes behavior of most superstars. Spectacles like yours in 2010 or Dwight Howard’s this year are only the very tip of the iceberg, the smaller part visible outside the water. There’s a huge dark side underneath that only a select few have ever glimpsed. And in the past, I’ve judged players based on the few secondhand reports I’ve heard of their dark side. You were no exception (and in fact, the secondhand reports on you have often been among the worst, at least in the past). But over the course of this shortened season I’ve realized that disliking an NBA superstar because they’re too arrogant and self-involved is the equivalent of disliking a rockstar because they drink and do drugs. It greatly limits your options as a fan. So I’m not concerning myself anymore with behavior I can’t see. I’m not gonna worry about whether the people who manage your “brand” are pulling the wool over my eyes. You’ve made one public misdecision (and a handful of smaller, related misdecisions) and you paid the price. So what if you aren't the most humble guy in the world, or don't know what the word even means. It’s time for us to turn our attention fully back to your marvels on the basketball court. Come playoff time, I don’t see myself rooting for the Heat, but I don’t see myself rooting for mortifying failure, either. I see myself rooting for you to have a performance for the ages, though perhaps in defeat. It goes back to Tiger: Some golf fans may not like him or root for him anymore, but everyone has to admit that the game is more fun to watch when he’s playing great, that beating Tiger-at-his-best <i>really</i> means something. Likewise, I want the best basketball player in the world to play like the best basketball player in the world. So when the playoffs finally arrive, Bron, here’s hoping you ignore all the haters and all the mental tailgaters, and do what you do best. <br />
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Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. Last week, when you played the Thunder, there was one play where you knocked the ball away from the guy you were guarding (Durant?), chased the ball down on the other side of the court, and jammed it home without taking any dribbles. It was an incredible display of power and speed and finesse, the kind of play that makes it seem possible that the NBA might one day lengthen or widen the court just because of your dominance, the way baseball lowered the mound because of Bob Gibson. Let's see more of that in the playoffs.<br />
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P.P.S. Speaking of guys named Bob, you know who has always driven the exact speed he wanted to drive, regardless of how many people were honking in the cars behind him? <i>Bob Dylan</i>. You’d do well to follow his lead, LeBron. That guy has always made the exact music he wanted to make, regardless of the criticism he received for it. This should be our goal, too. Make the music you want to make.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-10435808274820950442012-04-02T10:54:00.001-04:002012-04-09T10:06:09.698-04:00Point, ProkhorovDear Mr. Prokhorov,<br />
<br />
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 <i>New Yorker</i> 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.<br />
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Here's what you said: "I just don’t like literature, because all of the experiences in it are redundant to me...Literature I just don’t get at all. I’ve come to the conclusion that if someone has real-life experience, then he can’t, by definition, like literature." Well...wow. I didn't expect you to say anything that would cut me to the core and make me reflect upon one of my weaknesses as a human being, but there you go. <i>I've come to the conclusion that if someone has real-life experience, then he can't, by definition, like literature</i>. The smile dropped right off my face when I read that. Your implication, of course, is that the opposite is also true: the less real-life experience one has, the more one likes literature. A troubling thought for a guy like me, who definitely likes literature. Now I've always felt strongly that reading should be a <i>supplement</i> to life, and that life shouldn't be a supplement to reading. Good books, I've always felt, help us pay <i>more</i> attention to real life, not less. But I'd noticed on occasion that sometimes books can have the opposite effect. There have been many times in my life, for instance, when I would've rather read about riding a horse than actually ride a horse. Or times when an actual horse may have been galloping by me and I didn't see it because I was reading about a horse. Neither of these are good, Mikhail, not at all. I know that. (I'm not saying I only read about horses, by the way. That's just an example. Although many of my all-time favorite books--<i>True Grit</i>, <i>Anna Karenina</i>, <i>All the Pretty Horses</i>--do feature horses. Many of my other favorites do not, however.) Now, thanks to you, I worried that maybe reading is <i>always</i> just a way to bury one's head in the sand, no matter how we might rationalize it otherwise. And since I teach English and assign literature all the time, what does this say about the way I've spent my time over the years? It'd be like if you suddenly found out that stonewashing jeans was a meaningless act.<br />
<br />
So for weeks I thought about what you said, wrestling with it, trying to figure out where I stand on your comments and act accordingly. And to help me consider this troubling question, I finally turned to a place I often turn in such situations: literature. I don't know what that says about me or literature, that I use literature to decide if I should stop reading literature, but there you go. In this case, I consulted two great Americans, one the former handyman of the other, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau. I could've turned to the Russian writers, your country's greatest export in my opinion, but I didn't. When I thought about your quote, Thoreau and Emerson came to mind because both wrote <i>about</i> reading and because both, like you, greatly valued real life experiences. So what do they have to say? Well, in many ways they agree with you, Mikhail. In the chapter on "Reading" in <i>Walden</i>, Thoreau talks about how little he read while he was in his shack and says, "I read one or two shallow books of travel in the intervals of my work, till that employment made me ashamed of myself, and I asked where it was then that <i>I</i> lived." Point, Prokhorov. Why should I spend so much time reading about other places when I could be exploring the place where <i>I</i> live? You guys are right. I really want to do better about that in the future. And Emerson, too, was on your side, at times. In "The American Scholar," he emphasizes the importance of action, of getting out in the world: "I do not see how any man can afford, for the sake of his nerves and his nap, to spare any action in which he can partake." Another point for Prokhorov. In fact, this quote cut me to the core almost as much as yours. How many times have I avoided real life experiences either because I wanted to sleep or because of my nerves? Way too many, Mikhail. Way too many.<br />
<br />
But here's where these guys differ from you: even though they think that real life should never be ignored, they also find great value in books. Whereas the <i>New Yorker</i> says you read "mostly 'specialized literature,' like books on chess tactics," these guys think it's important to read books that deal with the essential questions of existence, books that are--to use the words of your countryman Vladimir Nabokov about your countryman Leo Tolstoy--"eternally preoccupied with issues of importance to all mankind at all times." And no matter what you say, I still think this is necessary. It's nice to be able to read an essay or a novel and to identify deeply with it. As Emerson says, "There is some awe mixed with the joy of our surprise, when this poet, who lived in some past world, two or three hundred years ago, says that which lies close to my own soul, that which I also had well-nigh thought and said." Or as he says elsewhere, "In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty." (Isn't that nice, Mikhail, that last phrase?) Maybe you don't need it, but I still need to read books that make me feel that way. Not to mention books that deal with those big questions, the kind that Tolstoy and Dostoevsky and Chekhov spent their Russian lives examining. You of all people should know that. As Thoreau says, "The at present unutterable things we may find somewhere uttered. These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound us have in their turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted; and each has answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his life." I know you own twenty Jet Skis, and that's great--Jet Skiing is often a fuller experience than reading--but at some point, Mikhail, you may find yourself without access to your Jet Skis, or you may even have questions that water sports won't address. Should this occur, you might consider consulting the thoughts of your great departed countrymen.<br />
<br />
In the end, I've decided that from now on I'll try to stick as closely as I can to a statement Emerson makes, which provides a nice balance between the two points of view: "Books are for the scholar’s idle times. When he can read God directly, the hour is too precious to be wasted in other men’s transcripts of their readings." In other words, from now on, if I have a chance to ride a horse or see a horse, I need to take it. Books are <i>only</i> for those moments when there are no horses or other experiences available. That's where you're right and where I need to change. But when those idle times come, Mikhail, and there's nothing doing, I'm going to continue to use books to help me recognize my rejected thoughts and the questions that disturb and puzzle and confound me. I'm glad literature exists. All the experiences in it are not redundant to me.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. Where do you stand on the Internet, TV, and video games? If one has real life experience, should one like these? Which reminds me, I was traveling this weekend and I passed by a motel on a river, with a sign out front that said the following:<br />
<br />
COME RELAX IN NATURE<br />
FREE WIFI<br />
<br />
What do you think about that? I want to be the kind of person who is much more excited about the first part of that sign than the second, the kind of guy who doesn't let the latter distract me from the former. Rarely do I feel like I just wasted a few hours of my time on earth after I've read a book, but I feel that way all the time after I've been flipping channels or surfing the web. That must mean something. And hopefully you're not feeling that way right now as you read this, Mikhail.<br />
<br />
P.P.S. I haven't even mentioned <i>delight</i>. For some people, myself included, experiencing the work of a truly great writer isn't all that different from the delight and awe that comes from watching a great basketball player. Reading late-period Cormac McCarthy isn't all that different from experiencing late-period MJ. Bird and Magic bear certain similarities to Hemingway and Fitzgerald. And reading Barry Hannah's best work is like watching a hybrid of Dennis Rodman and Pistol Pete.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-35393253660878436982012-03-25T00:00:00.000-04:002012-04-09T10:02:36.491-04:00Another Humbling Experience for MyselfDear Dwight,<br />
<br />
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, <i>Jalen, you’re complaining about yourself, bro! You've become what you hate! </i>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 <i>humbling</i> like that. I’m serious. The experience you were referring to is not humbling at all. Actually, it's the <i>exact opposite</i> 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.<br />
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To be fair, you aren't the first player to use the word this way. LeBron’s been doing it for quite a while now. And his boy D-Wade has started doing the same. In February, when they were named All-Star starters, their Twitter responses were the following: "Man I’m so humbled and blessed! Love all my fans!!" (LeBron) and "Thanks to all my fans for voting me in as a starter. Very humbling" (Wade). LeBron, though, seems to be the major trendsetter here and maybe even the originator of this usage. Rarely does a month go by without Bron mangling the H-word. During the 2010 playoffs, after he learned that he’d won his second straight MVP award, LeBron described the moment to the media as "another humbling experience for myself." And he’s shown no sign of slowing down since then. I’m far from the only person who has noticed this. Do a Google search, Dwight. There’s even a Facebook page called "I’m humbled by LeBron James’ misuse of the word humbled." Now, to be clear, I could see a way that one might describe some of these experiences as humbling, <i>maybe</i>, if framed in a certain way. For instance, if a player said that he's humbled to be around so many great all-stars, that might work. But that's definitely not what LeBron is doing. Mere adoration is not humbling. Nor should it be referred to as such. When it comes to his use of the H-word, I fear Bron-Bron is beyond saving. But there’s still hope for you, Dwight. You’ve only just started using it. There’s still time for you to change.<br />
<br />
With that in mind, I'd like to give you a quick refresher lesson in the meaning of the word, using examples from my own life. Example A: When I was sixteen or seventeen, I asked a girl out on a date, the first time I’d ever done so. (I was a late bloomer, Dwight.) I was nervous as heck, but I finally forced myself to call and ask her out, and she said yes. When this girl, a beauty queen (seriously), agreed to go out with me, I was not humbled, Dwight. However, I was humbled a couple days later when I called to solidify our plans (time, place) and she told me that she couldn’t go anymore because she had to go on a hayride. No joke. A hayride, Dwight. <i>That </i>is humbling. Example B: I was not humbled when I applied to graduate school and one of my absolute favorite writers of all-time, the great Barry Hannah (<i>Airships</i>, <i>Bats Out of Hell</i>, <i>High Lonesome</i>), left a message on my voicemail that began, "Hello, lad…" and then explained that they wanted me to come to Ole Miss, where he taught. In fact, Dwight, at that moment I was less humbled than I’d ever been or ever will be again about writing: Barry Hannah loved me. It was my closest equivalent to <i>We want Dwight! </i>Not<i> </i>humbling at all. I <i>was</i> humbled when I turned in my first short story to Barry Hannah's class and he handed it back a couple days later with his judgment. On the last page he’d described my story as a “cemetery of words.” (“Why am I reading this?” he wrote in the margins of another page.) When your favorite writer describes your writing as a cemetery of words—a place where words go to die—that’s humbling, Dwight. Final example: I teach freshman composition at a regional university in Georgia, and recently one of my students told me in front of the rest of my class that she liked the way I dressed. In that moment, I wasn't humbled. The youngsters liked my style<i>.</i><i> </i><i>I still got it, baby</i>, was my thought. I planned to go home and brag about this to my wife. But then my student explained that she liked my style because, she said, "You dress so plain that it isn’t distracting, like some other professors." Again, <i>this</i> is when I was humbled. (Also, subsequently, I put on a pair of long shorts and my wife told me I looked "like Kris Kross.") These are my examples, Dwight. I hope my experiences can help you change. I encourage you to print this letter out and refer to it whenever you’re considering using the H-word in the future.<br />
<br />
If you’re looking for your <i>own</i> examples, though, think about that Youtube video of you and Hakeem working out in Houston a couple summers ago, and how Hakeem in his retirement still seemed to have more offensive skills than you. Way more, actually. That's humbling. And there are other examples, Dwight, from playoffs past as well as off the court, but it’s not my job to humble you. It’s my job, a job I've taken upon myself, simply to remind you that some things are indeed humbling and some things are not. Even the best NBA players experience both, and it's important to be able to distinguish the two. If NBA fans know anything about you by now, Dwight, we know that you're a guy who wants very much to be liked (as we all are, of course). And nobody really likes a person who can't tell the difference between what's humbling and what's merely ego-inflating.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. What does it say about the sports world that you've been criticized so much for smiling, by the way? I don't believe there's any statistical correlation between smiling and losing. MJ smiled pretty frequently, right? And Magic smiled all the time. If you stop smiling and keep losing in the playoffs, people will talk about how you need to loosen up and enjoy yourself. In other words, people don’t know what they’re talking about. Keep smiling, Dwight. And remember, Hakeem didn’t win his championships until his 30’s. You’d do well to follow his famous mantra: “Stay humble, stay hungry.” That guy always used the word correctly.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-53031553125980168422012-03-18T16:55:00.002-04:002012-04-30T16:10:07.317-04:00Special Guest Letter: Brown-Eyed Kentucky GunslingersDear Rajon,<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>Boardwalk Empire</i> and <i>The Walking Dead</i>, 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 <i>Justified</i>. 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Abigail Greenbaum<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-35263826647300736542012-03-12T09:49:00.000-04:002012-03-18T16:59:36.864-04:00Only One Way to TakeDear Ricky,<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>is</i> 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 <i>relatively</i> 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 <i>unspeakably</i>? 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 <i>had been</i> a freak athlete, this "tragedy" would not be "more than too much to bear." You'll be back playing again <i>next year</i>. 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.<br />
<br />
So take heart in all the encouragement you've been receiving—you have a <i>ton</i> 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 <i>that</i> 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.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
BurkeBurke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-59486553715386625952012-03-04T22:28:00.000-05:002012-03-18T17:01:24.030-04:00Frank Lloyd Wright Doin' WorkDear Kobe,<br />
<br />
One of my favorite lines from one of my favorite books—<i>This Boy’s Life</i> 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 <i>Parks and Recreation</i> 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 <i>Black Swan</i> (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 <i>The Last Season</i>. 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 <i>even as your teammates held their hands out to pick you up</i>. 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.<br />
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But last week, as I marveled at your All-Star Game performance and then your subsequent 30+ point games, all played with the concussion/broken nose you sustained during that All-Star Game, I realized something: I don’t have to like your personality to admire you as a basketball player. Maybe this is obvious to you, Kobe, but it’s not obvious to me, considering the many years I’ve spent liking players for their (imagined) personalities. So I decided this week that I’m gonna just enjoy the way you play basketball, because it’s beautiful. It really is. Whether or not you’re an asshole is irrelevant; you’re an artist. In today's game against the Heat, I finally viewed your work without complicating it with my feelings about you as a human being, and your work was great: the 33 points you scored in that Hannibal Lecter mask were graceful and occasionally incredible. While I was watching, it occurred to me that judging your play based on your personality would be like judging a building based on the personality of the architect. Frank Lloyd Wright was a terrible human by many accounts, but you would never hear a conversation like this: “Man, that Fallingwater is amazing...” “Yeah, but the dude who designed it’s an <i>asshole</i>.” You’re the Frank Lloyd Wright of the NBA, Kobe. Your best games are stunning, calculated works of modern architecture. You're part of a long and illustrious line of assholes—painters, writers, musicians, architects, chefs—who’ve made beautiful work for the rest of us to enjoy, and that's no small thing.<br />
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For now let's not address the age-old question of whether someone <i>has</i> to be kind of an asshole to be truly great at something. (I don’t believe they do. There’s Jordan and Bird, yeah, but what about Magic?) What I would like to address, though, in closing, is this: To write even one great song or design one great building or have one great season, this is incredibly difficult to do. But to keep writing great songs or designing great buildings or having great seasons year after year after year, this is <i>beyond</i> incredibly difficult. Your third year in the NBA (and first as a starter) was the year I graduated high school. Since then I’ve gone to college, worked, gone to grad school, got married, had a kid—and you’ve been great the whole time. NBA people talk a lot about consistency, about how any guy can have one great game, but how only a select few can do it every night. But to do it every night for <i>sixteen</i> years and counting, occasionally with a torn wrist ligament or a concussion and a broken nose, that’s just…Wow. It's almost <i>inhuman</i> to perform that well for so long. You said recently that you’re “obsessed” with getting a sixth ring, and that's the perfect word: only someone who’s truly obsessed could do what you’ve done, could play the way you play every night. Only someone who is truly obsessed could set himself the goal of becoming Michael Jordan, down to the speaking mannerisms and all the championship rings, and actually come close to pulling it off. (Imagine someone saying, <i>I’m going to be Bob Dylan</i>, as many of us have, but then basically doing it, minus a great album or two. That’s how unlikely your career has been.) And whether any of us could be friends with you or not, basketball fans everywhere—including myself—have benefited from watching the results of that obsession. So thanks again for that. Henceforth, my defining Kobe image will not be you seated, with arms crossed, solitary and arrogant. My new image will come, instead, from today: You in the mask of a killer, beating the Heat, still obsessively creating.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. In case you’re wondering, the Kobe Bryant of musicians-who-want-to-be-Bob-Dylan is a guy called The Tallest Man on Earth. He's fantastic. He’s still real young, though; it’s not like he’s made forty albums. And let me make a disclaimer: There will never be another Michael Jordan. Never. I’m just saying you’ve come as close as anyone could possibly come. And there will never be another Bob Dylan, either. Somebody might get close to one <i>incarnation</i> of Bob Dylan. But then they’d have about fifteen more to go.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-1129541481437294752012-02-27T10:39:00.000-05:002012-07-18T12:18:57.131-04:00Wonderful Elegance! No Good at All!Dear Mr. Morey,<br />
<br />
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 <i>Moneyball</i> for Grantland—though you hadn't yet seen the movie, an unfortunate approach—and the year before, on Twitter, you weighed in on <i>The Social Network</i>, 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 (<i>The Artist</i> and <i>Hugo</i>), 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!"<br />
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But before I leave this topic and finally admit that opinions are basically worthless, let me point out that the movie <i>50/50</i>, not nominated last night, should have been a contender, just as our Kyle Lowry should’ve been at the All-Star Game. Both <i>50/50</i> and Kyle Lowry were ignored in favor of performers who’d been overvalued because of past experience, the classic GM mistake. If you haven't already, you should definitely watch <i>50/50</i>, Daryl. But be warned: it’s not about statistical analysis. It’s about cancer. Also be warned that there’s a decent amount of explicit sexual humor in the movie, almost all of which comes from the mouth of Seth Rogen. (This is the only element of <i>50/50</i> I could’ve done without; I’m getting tired of the emotional-movie-with-penis-jokes template). In other words, you probably shouldn’t watch it with your son, like you did with <i>Rocky</i> (according to Twitter). But the performances in that movie—from the main characters, including Rogen, and also the more minor ones—are incredibly good, in my opinion. Check it out.<br />
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And in the first half of this shortened season, Kyle Lowry was also incredibly good: 15.6 points per game/7.6 assists/5.3 boards/2.0 steals and the consensus best player on a team entering the second half at 20-14, the same record as the Lakers and one game back of the Mavs. Nobody seems to know that Kyle Lowry is among the league’s best point guards, just like nobody seems to know that <i>50/50</i> was among the year’s best movies and like nobody knows that the Rockets are among the league’s biggest surprises so far. But this is just another reminder that opinions don’t matter. Once again, you’ve put together a competitive team with a bunch of nice pieces but without any big stars (at least by public perception). You’ve gotten very good at this. There are opinionated people who say you should be tanking this season for a high draft pick and opinionated people who criticize you for not landing us a superstar (like superstars grow on trees and like David Stern didn’t already manipulate this tree before the season started) and, of course, opinionated people who criticize you for cutting Jeremy Lin, even though we already have an all-star caliber starting point guard and one of the most solid backups in the league, plus a third PG who could probably play somewhere else and sits the bench for us. But these people and their opinions have nothing to do with you, Daryl. All you and Kyle and the people who made <i>50/50</i> can do is just continue to work at the highest level you can and concern yourself as little as possible with what everybody else thinks (while still being honest about ways in which you can improve). I’m sure you already know all this, so I guess I’m just reminding myself.<br />
<br />
Instead of worrying about whether “this movie is fine, and that one terrible,” and instead of having opinions about other people’s opinions, my new goal is to be like George Whitman, the recently deceased owner of Shakespeare and Co., the great English-language bookstore in Paris. According to his obituary in the <i>New York Times</i>, George Whitman once wrote the following about another Whitman: "Perhaps no man liked so many things and disliked so few as Walt Whitman, and I at least aspire to the same modest attainment." That's not a bad way to spend one's life. I'm gonna aspire to this attainment, too, at least from now on. And among the things I like—the things I’m a great fan of—is your work as the Rockets GM, Daryl. You haven’t always been lucky, and luck plays a huge role in a team’s success, but you’re an incredibly smart guy, and a cool guy, and Rockets fans always know you’re working hard to make our team better. As a fan also of Houston’s professional (and now semi-pro) baseball franchise, I’ve experienced over the last few years what it feels like to root for a team with a clueless GM, and it isn’t fun. This makes me even more grateful to have you around. Following your work as GM is like watching the work of a great director: the movie may not be perfect, but it's obvious that every decision has been carefully considered. And that’s a nice feeling, as a fan. So thanks for that, and good luck in the second half and beyond. I know you haven't stopped working to improve our team.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. If I wasn’t done having opinions, I’d say—along with others who’ve made the same point—that Philip Seymour Hoffman’s portrayal of Art Howe, a former Astros manager, was a lazy and egregious injustice. P.S.H. is incredible and definitely one of my favorite actors (and his Oscar speech a few years back was my favorite Oscar speech of all-time—he mentioned <i>Astral Weeks</i> and the NCAA Tourney in the same speech!), but Art Howe is the first character he’s ever played who’s based on a real-life person I’m familiar with, and now I find myself questioning all his other performances. What if the Mattress Man and Brandt were nothing like that in real life?<br />
<br />
P.P.S. Did you see Will Ferrell’s pre-game introductions at the Hornets game a few weeks ago? Maybe the funniest was the one he did for D. Rose: "AT GUARD, NUMBER ONE, HIS FAVORITE MOVIE IS <i>THE NOTEBOOK</i>...Derrick Rose." The day after I saw that video, I happened to overhear a college kid telling his teacher (not me) that he’d made a list of his 50 favorite movies of all-time and though he also had a lot of Sandler and Schwarzenegger movies on the list, he’d surprised himself by putting <i>The Notebook</i> in his top ten. At first I snickered in my silent eavesdroppy way, but then I realized, Hey, I enjoyed that movie, too. And, anyway, why should anyone want to make fun of someone for <i>enjoying</i> something?Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-90132264394126336382012-02-19T19:59:00.003-05:002012-03-18T16:59:56.272-04:00Carmelo 2.0Dear Carmelo,<br />
<br />
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 <i>Office Space</i>, 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 <i>openly fearing </i>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 <i>glorious</i>. 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.<br />
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After this letter I won’t ever bring this quote up again—that’s a promise, Melo—but a year ago at this time, during all the trade speculation in Denver, you said the following: "I take my hat off to myself for dealing with all this stuff that's going on and still be able to go out there and play at the high level that I can play at. I really don't think an average person can walk in my shoes. I don't think that." <i>I take my hat off to myself</i>: that never gets old. And the end of the quote is even worse. I’d like to think that in the last year you’ve learned that it’s hard for fans to root for an athlete who says things like this, but I’m guessing you haven’t. A couple weeks ago, when the Knicks were sucking and you were shooting fifty shots a game even though you had a hurt wrist, I thought again of this quote and officially diagnosed your problem, both on and off the court: <i>a complete lack of self-consciousness</i>. Being one of the most self-conscious men in the world, I’m intimate with the many negatives of self-consciousness, but I also know that there are upsides. I figured you’d benefit from these upsides, benefit from a little self-awareness, just as I’d benefit from a little Carmelo-esque obliviousness (slash swagger).<br />
<br />
But then, a week before Linsanity began, after a loss to your old team, something crazy happened: you became introspective. At your locker after the game, you gave what the <i>Times</i> described as “an eight minute confessional.” Here’s part of it: "Maybe I need to not take so many shots. I don’t know. That’s just a bunch of stuff that goes through my mind. Just coming down, taking less shots, just figuring out ways, how to make other guys better. Should I pass it more?" And here's more: "Maybe I should take the blame for the games we’ve been losing, the offensive struggles. The coaches do run the offense through me. I’ll take it. I’ll take that blame." Well, I really admired the way you took the blame, Carmelo, but I’ll tell you what: I hated to see you this way. It was terrible. I regretted ever thinking that self-consciousness would help you. No athlete—or any other kind of performer—should ever have “a bunch of stuff” going through his or her head while they're performing. It’s no good for business. What makes athletes great is precisely their ability to keep stray thoughts out of their head while they play, something I'm sure you've known for a long time. (Read any of David Foster Wallace's incredible nonfiction pieces about tennis for more about this. Or actually don't, because then you'd be thinking too much.) And I’m an idiot for forgetting that, Melo. The director Wes Anderson—a guy who, like you, is great at what he does but also gets hated on for it—once said that "there’s never any time to have too much self-doubt." He’s right. What good does it do you, or anybody? So the day after your confessional, when you disavowed your comments—“I was just beating myself up”—and returned to your normal self, I was happy. Self-consciousness is not the answer.<br />
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But what is the answer then, Melo? Well, I think I know now, and I think it’ll help you on and off the court—and the answer involves my grandfather. My granddad, J. Ray, was the least self-conscious person I’ve ever known. Put that man in a room with a stranger of any age, sex, race, class, sexual preference, or personal disposition, and he’d start BS’ing and quickly involve them in a conversation, an enjoyable conversation, whether they wanted to be in one or not. I saw this happen probably a thousand times. The man never had any hesitation with people. And like you, he completely lacked self-awareness. ("Son, you can’t possibly know everyone who knows you," he once told my brother, after somebody had said hello to him at a restaurant.) But the difference between the two of you, besides the fact that he was an air-conditioning salesman and you're a famous basketball player, is that he never lacked <i>others</i>-awareness. Where you seem at times to be oblivious of both your teammates and the "average person," my granddad always wanted to make people around him enjoy themselves. The self-conscious man, like me, worries how he’s coming across to others; the people-conscious man worries if everybody around him is having a good time. That's what I've learned from my granddad. And that's how I want to be from now on, and maybe how you should try to be, too. This would mean making sure your teammates are having a good time by actually playing D and moving the ball around, while still being the great player you’ve always been. (Think <i>Beijing Olympics Carmelo</i>, when you did exhibit others-awareness, on the court at least.) Also, you'd have to start taking your hat off to other people, not yourself. And the best part is, Linsanity has already made this easier. How can you not be more aware of others when you see your team thriving without you? How can you not be more aware of others when you're now the second most famous Knick? Having Lin around to take some of the attention away, on and off the court, should—should—make it easier for you to become Carmelo Anthony 2.0. And that’s what we all want to see: a Carmelo who retains what makes him great, but rises to the occasion to become even better, to become a <i>man for others</i>, as the motto went at my high school. You can do it, Carmelo. Think about my granddad. I'll do the same.<br />
<br />
Before I end this letter, Melo, let me say this: The most interesting bit of Linsanity news all week was when Lin confirmed on a radio show that you—Carmelo Anthony—told D’Antoni to put Lin into the game vs. the Nets, the game in which he played his first substantive minutes, the game that started everything for him. The fact that you’re telling D’Antoni who to put into games, I don’t know what to make of that. But still: You helped Jeremy Lin get his chance. You, the guy who everyone sees as a threat to Linsanity, actually advocated to make it happen. That's incredible, really. And now maybe Lin will return the favor and help you. I hope so.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. Saying all the right things doesn’t make you a good guy and saying obliviously arrogant things doesn’t make you a bad guy. You can be a terrible person and just be good at sounding humble. Or vice versa. And you know what? You were actually right: It <i>would</i> be incredibly hard for an average person to play the way you did under all that scrutiny, of course it would. You just shouldn’t have said it aloud, or at least not that way. And it'll be incredibly hard to play that way again over the next week or so, under even more scrutiny. But you’ve done it before. No self-doubt.<br />
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<br /></div>Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-79988487042363528712012-02-12T10:36:00.001-05:002012-03-18T17:00:11.642-04:00The Jeremy Lin ExperienceDear Coach D'Antoni,<br />
<br />
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 <i>New York</i> 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.<br />
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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 <i>very next night</i> 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 <i>any player since the NBA/ABA merger in 1976</i>, 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 <i>while having an off night </i>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 <i>delighted</i> would you be?<br />
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It's a beautiful thing, these rare time-machine moments in sports (and life) where we could show a certain snapshot from the future to our unhappy younger self and this younger self would be extremely pleased but also extremely bewildered. When you coached in Italy, what would you have thought if you had seen your picture on the back page of one of those future New York tabloids as the head coach of the Knicks? When the Nuggets fired you in the early 90's after only one unsuccessful lockout-shortened season as head coach, what would you have thought if someone showed you your future NBA Coach of the Year trophy? When Lin was playing in the D-League for the Reno Bighorns or the Erie Bayhawks, or even better, when he was sending tapes to college coaches and failing to get a scholarship, what would he have thought if someone showed him the AP story about the Lakers game ("Jeremy Lin had the most astounding performance of his remarkable week, scoring a career-high 38 points and outdueling Kobe Bryant as the New York Knicks held off the Los Angeles Lakers 92-85 on Friday night…”)? Or think of the Giants and Cardinals, the elated confusion they would've felt if they'd seen their respective championship headlines during their regular season low points. There's a life lesson here, though I know I don't need to draw it out for you, Mike. And I'm not sure I even could.<br />
<br />
I heard one announcer say that Jeremy Lin's story "defies logic." No. The kid had 30 against UConn in college and outplayed John Wall in the NBA Summer League. Literally no one expected him to do anything like that in the NBA, but it doesn't <i>defy logic</i>. Defying logic would be if Jeremy Lin levitated inside the Garden. But here's the thing: just because we can reach a logical explanation for something doesn't make it any less incredible, or even less miraculous. We forget this sometimes, Mike. Discussing musical notes and the recording process doesn't lessen <i>Astral Weeks</i>, Van Morrison's most miraculous album. Talking about erosion doesn't lessen the Grand Canyon. Talking about the science of childbirth doesn't lessen the incredible fact that <i>a new human person just came out of there who previously didn't exist</i>. I'm not saying Jeremy Lin's week equals <i>Astral Weeks</i> or the weeks of gestation, but I am saying this: As a coach, you may already be revising the Jeremy Lin story in your head, making it seem less astounding. Humans have a bad habit of revising their internal equilibrium almost immediately after something incredible occurs to them, so that it becomes normal, taken-for-granted, even boring. Don't do it, Mike. Remember February 3rd and how you would've reacted then to a glimpse of the near future.<br />
<br />
A week ago I was really getting settled in to root against you and the Knicks for the rest of the season. I'm a Rockets fan, Mike, and as you know, we have your first round pick in the upcoming draft, as long as it's not in the top five. (A result of the Tracy McGrady trade. Ha!) I figured the pick would be in the late first round, but suddenly it looked like you guys might actually miss the playoffs altogether, even in the weak-ass East, and we might actually get a <i>lottery pick</i> from you, unless Stern rigs it. So I had legit reasons for rooting against the Knicks. And I didn't mind rooting against Carmelo, who I've disliked ever since I saw a documentary on the Redeem Team and watched a segment where they asked all the players who was the funniest guy on the team and every single player said Lebron, except for Carmelo, who said, "Most people would probably say me, but I'd say Lebron." And I didn't mind rooting against you, even though I've always liked you and your teams, because you seemed to be throwing your players under the bus a lot this season (see my <a href="http://deardikembe.blogspot.com/2012/01/dear-coach-jackson-i-always-felt.html" target="_blank">letter to Mark Jackson</a>). And I didn't mind rooting against the Knicks organization as a whole, because they're New York and, more importantly, because they traded a bunch of their best young players for a ball-hogging superstar who would've likely joined the team as a free agent a few months later, and the powers-that-be certainly deserve to be cheered against for their lack of patience and logic. And, even worse, the decision seems to have been made primarily by a jackass of an owner who doesn't give interviews and who fronts a band called JD & the Straight Shot. And this owner and his band play a song called "Fix the Knicks," which includes these lyrics: "Doing my best, yes, that's my promise/I check with my friends, call Isiah Thomas." Isiah Thomas! The dude whose basketball decisions set the franchise back a decade and who caused the organization to pay an $11.5 million settlement for the sexual harassment of a team employee! So, yeah, I looked forward to cheering the Knicks to the 6th pick in the draft.<br />
<br />
But now I can't do it, Mike. I can't cheer against Linsanity. I really can't. And I love the way everybody else is playing now, too, love to see a D'Antoni team playing like a D'Antoni team. And I can't cheer against Amar'e either, who just lost his brother, and who spent the week grieving with his family while the rest of us delighted in Jeremy Lin. I hope Amar'e and his family are doing okay, or as okay as they can be under the circumstances. I've always liked Amar'e--in <i>Seven Seconds or Less</i> he comes across as a pretty good dude, actually--and now he finally has somebody who can run a pick and roll with him again. Let's hope we soon witness an Amar'e renaissance. <br />
<br />
All season I've been irritated whenever I see the stupid Knicks on the national TV schedule, but now I'm searching the schedule for <i>more</i> Knicks games. And the truth of the matter, one that we rarely acknowledge, is that watching sports is much more fun when the big teams are good, even if only to cheer against them. The Cowboys suck and the NFL is slightly worse off for it. Nobody, even Yankee haters, really wants the Yankees to go back to their pre-Jeter irrelevance. And if a big team has an incredible underdog playing a central role, that's different and even better. I'll be rooting for you guys as long as Lin's in the lineup, except against the Rockets. I know you don't care, but I thought it might be interesting to consider that a week ago most of New York had turned against you, and now even random people from other states will be hoping the Knicks continue to succeed. And anyone who delighted in this past week--other Knicks and Knicks fans and people like me--owes you a debt of gratitude for giving Lin a real opportunity. Thanks for playing him, Mike.<br />
<br />
To conclude, let's take one more trip in the mental machine, but let's go to the future: a week, a month, a year, a decade from now. Will the term <i>Linsanity</i> seem antique, the way, say, <i>crackberry</i> is starting to seem? Will Jeremy Lin be a legit star, or will he be a solid NBA point guard, or will he have faded into an NBA footnote? Whatever the answers, future Mike D'Antoni and the future versions of the rest of us will already be creating a revisionist history of Jeremy Lin. Either Linsanity will begin to seem more and more <i>normal</i>, the way Kobe's 34 and crazy turnaround J's seemed normal the other night, or Linsanity will have ended, for any number of reasons, and Lin's early performances will be considered an aberration. Either way, we'll unconsciously lessen what happened in the past week because of it. But just this once, let's not do that, Mike. Let's clearly remember how wonderful this was, that an undrafted Asian-American from Harvard scored more points in his first three starts than Bird, Magic, Jordan, Shaq, Lebron, and anybody else in modern NBA history. Let's fight the human instinct to normalize the incredible. To quote another great underdog who came out of nowhere--Dignan from the movie <i>Bottle Rocket</i>: "Everybody wants to know what's next. May I enjoy this moment?"<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. I'm calling on you, Mike, to call on America to cease with the Lin puns. The worst one I saw was a sign that said, "Lin-possible is Everything," which makes no sense. The best was the shirt that said, after Ludacris, "All I do is Lin, Lin, Lin."Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-28212868651502299732012-02-05T00:18:00.000-05:002012-04-30T16:10:40.049-04:00That Golden CompanyDear Paul George,<br />
<br />
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 <i>pro</i>? 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 <i>over</i> 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 <i>sixth</i> 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.<br />
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Last year, as a 6'8" rookie, you averaged almost eight points. Not bad. This year, you're averaging a little over twelve, but you had 30 last week in the Mavs game and 24 against the Nets, so your scoring average is on the rise. I'm excited because at the end of the season we'll be able to empirically compute how many points per game two inches of height is worth. And then we'll know how Shaq would've done if he'd been Ivo's size, and vice versa. I'm also excited about your team, as of right now the third best in the East, close behind the two juggernauts. Things can change--you and your body know that better than anyone--but the Pacers have been really<i> </i>good so far. You guys are like Denver, who I really enjoyed watching this week: two exciting young teams winning games without a superstar. And because of that, and your growth spurt, and your teammate Roy Hibbert's guest appearances on my current favorite TV show (<i>Parks and Recreation</i>), I now have a new team to root for out of the East. The other day I heard Jeff Van Gundy say that it's "inevitable" that the Bulls and Heat will meet in the Eastern Conference Finals. I've heard other NBA experts say the same thing, using the same word. But you and I both know that when people start calling something inevitable in sports, this means it almost certainly won't happen. Ask the 2007 Patriots. (But don't ask MJ, because he <i>did</i> make things inevitable.) Point is, I'm excited about cheering for you guys in the East, cheering for the Pacers to make the sports pundits do what they always do: pretend they saw something coming that they never saw coming. Van Gundy's honest enough, though, that he'd probably admit it.<br />
<br />
But the main reason I'm writing you is this: Your growth spurt put me in mind of my youth, Paul. In the late 80's and early 90's, the American suburbs experienced an epidemic of doctors making reckless predictions about the height of their young male patients, in front of said patients. "My doctor told me I still had a lot of room to grow." "My doctor said my bone structure shows I'll grow like five more inches." "My doctor told me I'm gonna be six six." These were common statements when I was a young man, statements I both made and heard from others. And I don't remember anyone who made such a statement--not one person--growing any major amount. Sure, there were a few random kids who shot up, but they weren't the ones making the bone structure claims. In 7th grade I was a 5'10" center; in 8th I was a 5'11" power forward; in 9th I was a 6'0" shooting guard, in 10th I was still a 6'0" shooting guard; in 11th I was a 6'0" reporter for the school newspaper. I never grew again. As teenagers we dreamed of late and unexpected growth spurts like yours, and we'd play pickup games on low goals to see what it'd be like. We'd wonder what kind of players we'd be if we were 6'6" or 6'10" or as tall as Manute Bol, and then we'd adjust the goal accordingly, sometimes with a stick. Every once in a while the question still comes up between me and my brother: <i>Hey, if I suddenly had a huge growth spurt, right now, you think I could make the League?</i> I'm ten years older than you and I'd have to grow ten inches, not two, to reach your new height, but I do think about it. While your story isn't as inspiring as Scottie Pippen's story used to be for us--team manager at a small college grows eight inches, stars at the college, and becomes a first round draft pick--it still brings back my obsession with growth spurts. <br />
<br />
Your dunk against the Nets was exactly like the dunks my more athletic friends would do when we played on low goals. At one of my social low points, a few of my friends and I spent a series of Friday nights at an evangelical church that rented space behind an indoor amusement park called Fame City. This church, which neither me nor any of my friends actually attended, held an open "gym" in a carpeted meeting room where they'd set up two portable goals, lowered to about eight and a half feet to accommodate the ceiling. We were in high school. We'd go there to dunk on evangelical middle schoolers. Also to forget for a few hours that we didn't know any girls. I'm not proud of this, Paul, but that was our life for a while.<br />
<br />
Your boss, Larry Bird, played on low goals too. I no longer own a copy of <i>Drive</i>, his autobiography, but I distinctly remember reading in there that when he first got into basketball, he'd play with his friends on a low goal so they could dunk. It's true. Go check it out. I still recall this because I remember my exact thought process when I read about it in 8th grade or whatever: "Larry Bird played on low goals just like me. I could be Larry Bird..." But eventually I learned that while Larry Bird might've played on low goals and Scottie Pippen might've grown eight inches in college and Jordan might've been "cut" from varsity, these guys are in no way like me, and not just because of height. In truth, I didn't even dunk that much on low goals. I understand now that I couldn't even make the D-League if I grew ten inches, though I think I could do pretty well in the rec league White Chocolate plays in. I've matured enough to know that the two inches you grew might've made you <i>slightly</i> better, Paul, but what makes you a fantastic young basketball player--a guy who can score thirty points in a game among the world's best--isn't your height. What makes <i>any</i> basketball player succeed in the NBA isn't really their height. I understand now that NBA success is determined far more by certain learned, natural, and mental abilities. These days, the whole I-could-be-in-the-NBA-if-I-was-that-tall argument puts me in mind of Ackley from in <i>The Catcher in the Rye</i>, in the one hoops reference Holden makes in the novel:<br />
<br />
“I once sat next to Ackley at this basketball game. We had a terrific guy on the team, Howie Coyle, that could sink them from the middle of the floor, without even touching the backboard or anything. Ackley kept saying, the whole goddam game, that Coyle had a perfect <i>build</i> for basketball. God, how I hate that stuff.”<br />
<br />
I'm not gonna be like Ackley, Paul. That'd be intolerable. Ultimately, your growth spurt is just a delightful curiosity for me. If the ESPN ticker would scroll constant news like that, instead of telling me a hundred times that Josh Hamilton had "three or four drinks" at a bar, information that should never scroll across the bottom of a television screen, then maybe I wouldn't despise that ticker so much. (God, how I hate that stuff.) Your growth spurt story gave me renewed interest in a team I hadn't followed in a long time, and for that I'm grateful. I really look forward to cheering you guys on, especially come playoff time. These days I can enjoy the spectacular as simply the spectacular. But it <i>is</i> a little bittersweet, hearing about your growth spurt and watching your amazing highlights. Because here's the thing: I have dreams about dunking a basketball, Paul. I don't mean "hopes and." I mean <i>literal</i> dreams, while I sleep. At least once a year I dream about dunking. No lie. Lame, maybe, but involuntary. The dream is basically the same every time: I realize that I can dunk easily, a straightforward two-handed dunk. Nothing fancy. Usually I'm in a high school gym and it's not even during a game. It's during lay-up lines or we're just shooting around. And before I wake up disappointed, I always feel not elation, but peace, as if this is exactly how it should be.<br />
<br />
In conclusion, Paul, here's Roger Angell, the greatest baseball writer of all time, in his first <i>New Yorker </i>baseball article, from 1962, talking about spring training:<br />
<br />
“There were perhaps two dozen of us in the stands, and what kept us there, what nailed us to our seats for a sweet, boring hour or more, was not just the <i>whop!</i> of bats, the climbing white arcs of outfield flies, and the swift flight of the ball whipped around the infield, but something more painful and just as obvious—the knowledge that we had never made it. We would never know the rich joke that doubled over three young pitchers in front of the dugout; we would never be part of that golden company on the field, which each of us, certainly for one moment of his life, had wanted more than anything else in the world to join.”<br />
<br />
That's how part of me feels when I see your highlights.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. Did I try Strength Shoes, the ones with the platforms at the front that improve your "fast-twitch" muscles? Yes. Did I jump around in these shoes in my parents' backyard? Yes, yes I did. But not enough to say conclusively that they don't work.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-58174253780574928932012-01-29T19:06:00.000-05:002012-03-18T17:00:53.874-04:00I'm Learning, Man. That's My Horse Tutor.Dear Shaq,<br />
<br />
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 <i>Inside the NBA</i> crew. Then, over the holidays at my folks' house, my brother and I watched a few episodes of a show on NBA TV called <i>Open Court</i>, 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 <i>Inside the NBA</i>. 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: <i>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! </i>Suddenly I couldn't remember: Were you ever that interesting? Or was the pressure <i>making you</i> 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 <i>really</i> 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. <br />
<br />
Being someone who has frozen under pressure in many different pursuits, I felt like I could explain the problem: <i>You hadn't found your freedom. </i>I don't know if you ever listen to NPR, Shaq, but here's Philip Roth from an interview with Terry Gross on <i>Fresh Air</i> a few years back, talking about his novel <i>The Human Stain </i>and its narrator:<br />
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Gross: What narrative problems do you solve by having Zuckerman be the narrator?<br />
<br />
Roth: Well, the biggest problem I solve is nothing stands between me and my spontaneous reaction to the material. That is, it’s not such a cunning, strategic process. What you’re trying to do is find your freedom as a writer . . . maximally deploy your powers, and I just feel that this is a way I can maximally deploy my powers.<br />
<br />
See, the unfunny, boring Shaq we witnessed was not spontaneously reacting to the material, and thus wasn’t maximally deploying his powers. We wanted Shaq-in-the-lane, a man who'd certainly found his freedom, but instead we were getting Shaq-at-the-line. You were trying too hard, you were constricted. And if I've learned anything in life, it's that once you start trying too hard at something, that's exactly when you start sucking. I'm a teacher, Shaq, and the difference in quality between my teaching on a normal day--when I've found my freedom--and my teaching when I'm being observed by a superior and trying to do extremely well, is <i>enormous</i>. If you're trying too hard, you lose your freedom. This is true for writing, sports, public-speaking, wooing, drawing, singing, dancing at weddings, throwing crumpled-up paper into trash cans from long distances, and everything else. You gotta find a way to be focused but loose. That's what Philip Roth was talking about. Think about Chuck: He's great every night on TNT without even trying. He's an artist. The other night he inadvertently called the Wizards the Bullets, and when you guys called him out for it, he said, "I call em the Bullets...because I wanna shoot em." That same night, after the Grizzlies/Clippers game finished, <i>Inside the NBA</i> showed the highlights and Chuck said, "They just <i>watched</i> the game. Why we gotta show the highlights?" That's a man who's found his freedom. (Or recall Chuck at the slam dunk contest last year, when the camera panned to one of the judges, Darryl Dawkins, in a truly terrible suit and after a few seconds of stunned silence from the other broadcasters, Chuck said, "<i>Hey Mama</i>, I found out what happened to your curtains.") But when Chuck went on <i>Saturday Night Live</i> a few weeks ago, he <i>tried</i> to be funny and the result was, to use one of his favorite words, terrible. I couldn't bear to watch much of it--<i>SNL</i> at its worst has always made me vicariously embarrassed--but from the few skits I saw, he froze up, kept staring at the teleprompter in the middle of the skit, and acted stiffer than I'd ever seen him act before. Stop me if Phil Jackson already told you this, but it's like what the famous Zen archer Awa Kenzo once told his young pupil: "Thinking about hitting the target is heresy. Do not aim at it." On <i>SNL</i> Chuck committed that heresy. On TNT Chuck never aims. And after watching you early in the season, I decided that you--like myself--needed to figure out a way to stop aiming, too, even when people are watching, even when you really care about hitting the target.<br />
<br />
But over the last couple of weeks, after I’d already made this judgment, I watched the latest episodes of <i>Inside the NBA</i> in their entirety, and I realized something: the later it gets, the better <i>you</i> get. Early in the night, say at halftime of the first game, you're still taking aim, acting wooden, trying to be professional and thereby saying nothing of interest. At these times your low voice gets even lower, especially when you're trying to do serious analysis. But as the night goes on, especially after all the games are over and <i>Inside the NBA</i> actually begins, you find your freedom. After midnight, you stop being "strategic," to use Philip Roth's term; you're just yourself. And, honestly, you're <i>damn</i> good. You get into sincere, passionate, entertaining arguments with Chuck about Kevin Love vs. Blake Griffin, or where Marc Gasol ranks among current centers, and you hold your own. Unlike ESPN's boring-ass roundtable discussions, these are <i>real</i> disagreements, the same kind of who's-better debates I used to have with my friends in middle school:<br />
<br />
Shaq: I'm revoking your big man license. You can't talk about big men no more. You don't have G14 classification to talk about big men. <i>Better than Bynum?</i> Stop it.<br />
<br />
Chuck: I didn't say he was!<br />
<br />
Shaq: You just said it!<br />
<br />
Chuck: No, he asked me and I--<br />
<br />
Shaq: And you said yes. That means you said it.<br />
<br />
Chuck: Because I'm <i>not sure</i>. I wanna think about it.<br />
<br />
This type of thing is great, especially when you make Chuck back down in a hilariously illogical way. See, in my evaluation of your broadcasting skills, Shaq, I made the classic NBA mistake of thinking a contest was over before the final buzzer goes off. This is the same thing I did a few times last year in the playoffs, turning off the TV because Dallas was down 17 or something and then reading a text from someone in the morning about the overtime and thinking, "Overtime? In what game?" And that's the same thing I would've done last week when the Celtics were down by 27 to the Magic and came back to win, except that I’d already decided I'll never again watch the Orlando Magic play basketball during the regular season (except for special circumstances, i.e. Rockets or Rubio). Metaphorically, Shaq, you get down by 27 at the beginning of each TNT broadcast, but I'm here to tell you that--at least lately--you've come back to win every time. I couldn't imagine saying this a few weeks ago, but you're the perfect addition to <i>Inside the NBA</i>, the perfect adversary for Chuck and the rest of the guys. The segment a couple weeks back when you discussed your newly purchased horse--Diesel--was truly one of best things I've seen on TV over the last year or so. As TNT played footage of you being pulled around on your horse, the following discussion ensued:<br />
<br />
Chuck: What kinda grown man have, uh, somebody pullin—<br />
<br />
Shaq: Hey, man. I’m retired.<br />
<br />
Chuck: You got a man pulling your horse around.<br />
<br />
Shaq: I don’t know how to <i>ride</i> a horse.<br />
<br />
Chuck: Are you serious, dog? <br />
<br />
Shaq: I don’t know how to ride a horse.<br />
<br />
Ernie [perplexed]: Why did you buy it?<br />
<br />
Shaq: So I can learn how to ride it.<br />
<br />
Kenny: You…you use some…another horse to learn. You don’t just buy it.<br />
<br />
Shaq: First of all, have you ever ridden a horse, cowboy?<br />
<br />
Kenny: Yes I have.<br />
<br />
Shaq: Well, I have. I don’t know--<br />
<br />
Kenny: I don’t know how to ride <i>well</i>, but I wouldn’t—<br />
<br />
Shaq: I went to the horse place. They teach a man how to ride a horse.<br />
<br />
[Too many people speaking at once during more video of Shaq getting pulled on his horse by a diminutive Hispanic man]<br />
<br />
Shaq: Andres! What’s up, baby! [unintelligible faux-Spanish]<br />
<br />
[multiple people speaking]<br />
<br />
Chuck: Dude, who’s pulling your horse?<br />
<br />
Shaq: Listen, man. <i>I’m learning how to ride the horse</i>.<br />
<br />
Kenny: Yo, lemme think, he put an ad in the paper. I need somebody who can pull my horse...He’d pay a guy a hundred thousand dollars for that, probably. That’s a good job.<br />
<br />
Chuck: Does he come to your house every day and pull it for you?<br />
<br />
[laughter in the studio from behind the cameras]<br />
<br />
Shaq: Whoa…that was a good one. That was a good one.<br />
<br />
[more laughter, unintelligible talk]<br />
<br />
Chuck: My man, my man get up at…My man say, I’m going to work. Whatchyou doing today? I'ma pull Shaquille O'Neal around on a horse all day. Are you <i>kidding</i> me? Wow...<br />
<br />
Kenny: How much you get paid? <i>Hundred thousand dollars</i>.<br />
<br />
Chuck: Let me and Kenny do that. I’ll do it for a hundred grand.<br />
<br />
Shaq [defiant]: I’ll bring my horse right here.<br />
<br />
Kenny: I’m not pulling it for any price, Ernie.<br />
<br />
Shaq: My horse gonna be right here.<br />
<br />
Kenny: Ernie, I’m not pulling it for any price.<br />
<br />
See? That's fantastic, Shaq. You’re being yourself and it's as good as a Coen Brothers script, in my opinion. And I don’t mean <i>Ladykillers</i>, either. I'm talking <i>Raising Arizona </i>or <i>Big</i> <i>Lebowski</i> Coen Brothers. You're the John Goodman of <i>Inside the NBA</i>. Chuck and Kenny may hammer you ("That horse need a <i>chiropractor</i>." "Ain't there a weight limit on a horse?"), but you only respond with absolute sincerity. It's beautiful. It's a comedic bulls-eye. And the best part is, it seems <i>effortless</i>. Your performance in that segment is an inspiration for any of us who've ever tried too hard, a reminder that we too can find our freedom. So thanks for not aiming, Shaq. Keep up the good work. I plan to use the above transcript as exhibit A, if necessary, in any debates about whether you've made <i>Inside the NBA</i> better or worse. You're an interesting dude and a truly entertaining addition to the TNT crew. Anyone who says otherwise must've turned the game off before the final buzzer.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. Why are you still upset about Dwight Howard calling himself Superman? He's just a mixed-up kid, Shaq. Let it go. You're not the original Superman, either. <i>Superman</i> is the original Superman. You sulked about it on the air after the Orlando game, muttering, "If all you gotta do is win a dunk contest to be called Superman..." Come on. It's not like any reasonable basketball fan thinks Dwight Howard is better than you were, not by a long shot. Be graceful, big fella. I've read enough of <i>The Last Season</i> while loitering in Barnes and Noble to know that you and Kobe fought over and motivated yourself with extremely petty crap all the time, and Thomas Lake's great recent <i>Sports Illustrated</i> article about MJ reminded us again that the greatest basketball player of all time was also one of the pettiest--and used his pettiness as fuel for years and years of great basketball. But once you retire, pettiness is just pettiness. Let it go, man.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-9999018533609428862012-01-22T23:56:00.001-05:002012-07-18T12:20:02.751-04:00Yao We Can Believe InDear Yao,<br />
<br />
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 <i>Behind the Wall </i>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.<br />
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I've been burned enough (see letter below) to know that it's naive and near-meaningless to make character judgments about public figures, especially positive judgments. But we can't help it. By "we" I either mean humans or just people in my family. My dad once shared an elevator with actor and wrestling star Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson and if I remember the story correctly they didn't speak at all, but afterwards my dad was like, "That Rock, he's a good guy." I know I'm basically doing the same thing here, but if there's one pro athlete, retired or active, who I'm near-certain is a genuinely nice person, it's you, Yao. My reasons may be secondhand and anecdotal--I listed some of them in my <a href="http://deardikembe.blogspot.com/p/dear-commissioner-please-dont-screw-us_28.html" target="_blank">letter to Roger Goodell</a>--but I don't care if they're not empirical. You're a good dude. And it has very little to do with your public works (freeing pandas into the wild, campaigning against the practice of shark-finning, etc.) because every pro athlete does charity, even the assholes. It's part of the job. But in the nine years you were in Houston, you always came across as thoroughly decent and funny. You were the rare star who actually had perspective. Maybe it's cultural; maybe you never lost your way or took your hat off to yourself because Chinese culture is less permissive than American culture about that kind of thing. Last fall, LSU's quarterback Jordan Jefferson--I'm talking about college football, Yao--missed four games because he committed battery at a bar. After his suspension, he said the following: "This was a tough experience for me. Sitting there watching the guys play all these tough games was the hardest thing I've done in my life...I can't imagine anybody in the country going through more than I did." He really said that! This American athlete, coddled as all big-time American athletes are, couldn't imagine <i>anyone in the country</i> going through more than he did because he missed <i>four</i> games after fighting at a bar. Then there's you, Yao. In December 2010, when the Rockets announced that your season, and most likely your career, were both over because of the stress fracture in your ankle, everyone in the city was saying stuff like, "Did you hear about Yao? <i>So</i> sad..." We were actually mourning. Then you gave your first statement to a reporter following the announcement, and here's what you said: "I haven't died. Right now I'm drinking beer and eating fried chicken. What were you expecting, a funeral?" This is the essence of Yao, to me. This is why you're one of the most likable athletes of all-time. And all I'm saying now is the same thing I wrote in my classmates' yearbooks in middle school: never change.<br />
<br />
The other day my wife and I were talking about Michael Jordan's fashion sense and after a while she said, "Do you think it's possible to be a superstar and not be a sleazebag?" And I said, "Well, what about Lance [Berkman, not Armstrong]?" Because we both love Lance. (You probably met him a few times, actually. Good guy? Don't tell me if he isn't.) And she said, "I mean a <i>super</i>star." And I said, "I don't know," but I was thinking <i>maybe not</i>. But you, Yao, are definitely a superstar, at least in certain extremely populated parts of the world, and I'd be willing to bet my next paycheck that no one's ever considered you a sleazebag, nor its Mandarin equivalent. But here's the thing: no one considered Michael Corleone to be a sleazebag at the beginning of <i>The Godfather</i>, either. Have you seen <i>The Godfather</i>? He was an honorable, decent, baby-faced returning hero, just like you are. But then he got caught up in the mafia, and look how much he changed. It's disturbing. And how different is the mafia from the Chinese government, or <i>any</i> government for that matter? (That's not a rhetorical question. I'm asking, Yao. I have no idea.) So the purpose of this letter is to ask you, to beg you, to watch the first two <i>Godfather</i> movies, even though they're long, and then be on the alert, Yao. One second you're sitting in a harmless auditorium with a bunch of old people, and the next second, if you're not careful, you're shark-finning and oppressing pandas. That’s the worst case scenario, yes, but I thought someone needed to warn you. And I'm not saying you shouldn't continue to explore politics. Knowing your intelligence and decency, I truly can't think of anyone more equipped to do well in politics. I'm sure you'd make level-headed decisions and maybe you could even change your country for the better. But the world is crazy, Yao. Look at your friend Mutombo. Politics/money/power makes people do strange things, rearranges their moral perspective. So be careful. You're one day younger than I am and I just don't wanna see you get hurt. No matter what you do in this next stage of your life, no matter how far you go in wine-making or your university studies or in politics, always hang on to the essence of Yao. Someday the citizens of two world powers may thank you for it.<br />
<br />
Regards,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. I'm glad you're one of those rare athletes who has the ability to thrive in retirement. This comforts me whenever I think of our team--coming together as of late, actually--and I think about what might've been if we also had your 20+/10+ every night, not to mention your good-natured, gigantic presence in the locker room. Next time I think of this, I need to remember to get some fried chicken and beer. <br />
<br />
P.P.S. I'm also glad you didn't have to endure this year's compressed schedule. It's been exhausting, for players and fans. And coaches have stopped wearing ties.Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-71475031045537628342012-01-22T22:30:00.000-05:002012-03-18T17:01:37.638-04:00Special Emergency Letter: Conflict GoldDear Mutombo,<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
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, <i>Mutombo</i>, really<i> </i>set up a deal to sell a thousand pounds of conflict minerals within <i>a few weeks </i>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 <i>that</i> 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 <i>damn</i>, Dikembe. This is surprising. This is crazy and awful. This is some <i>Blood Diamond</i> 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 <i>real</i> 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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Sincerely,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Burke </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
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 <i>Houston Chronicle</i> 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! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-47940811121602877252012-01-15T23:54:00.000-05:002012-05-08T07:44:08.488-04:00The Beautiful GameDear Ricky Rubio,<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>isn't</i> 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?<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
And yet, I'm watching highlights the night after Christmas and there you are with six assists in your first NBA game, <i>nice</i> assists, most of them bounce passes of beautiful, previously unnoticed angles. When I see this, I perk up. Four nights later I see highlights of your first double double, in your third game, against the Heat. 12 points, 12 assists, 6 rebounds, off the bench. And more highlight passes, including a ridiculous alley. At this point my skepticism disappears. The next night I see a highlight of you against Dallas, under the basket, throwing a pass <i>through Dirk's legs</i> to get a teammate an open three. And this pass, like your other highlight passes, was not only delightful, but also <i>necessary</i>. Your passes aren’t mere tricks. This may be a difference between you and a highlight-passer like early Jason Williams. (And by the way, I saw White Chocolate sitting courtside at a Magic game on TNT last week. He has season tickets. Seriously! I've never heard of this, Ricky, a former player buying front-row season tickets to watch his sport after he retires. And he told TNT he plays in a rec league with Gilbert Arenas! A <i>four-on-four</i> rec league! I'm not making this up, Ricky!) After that pass through Dirk's legs and the double double vs. Miami, and this other highlight lob you threw from almost half-court, I was ready to join your fan club. (And this would be a bittersweet moment for me: the first time I joined the fan club of an athlete born in the 90's. The 90's! This isn’t crazy to you, Ricky, but trust me: it’s crazy to a grown-ass man like me.) In the days that followed I found myself checking your box scores every morning, admiring your increasingly impressive stats, and cursing the NBA and its partner networks for not scheduling T-Wolves games on national TV. This is something I never thought would be a frustration in my life.<br />
<br />
At the beginning of the season, Mike D'Antoni called you--sarcastically, I believe--a "folk hero." And maybe part of the reason I wanted to see you play so badly was the appeal of the unavailable, the magnetism of the unknown. I always get overly excited about hard-to-find bootleg albums or out-of-print, supposedly great novels. And they almost always end up being more exciting in theory than when I finally get my hands on them. So maybe this was part of your appeal, yeah. But the other reason I wanted to see you actually play a game on TV was legitimate: In basketball and soccer and every other great sport, highlights just aren't the same as seeing a great play in real time. You know that, Ricky. Seeing a highlight reel of your best passes or Messi's best goals is not nearly as moving as seeing them occur as they happen. It's like the difference between seeing a funny fall on YouTube and actually seeing one of your friends take a hilarious spill as you walk down the street. Or it's like how the American writer Walker Percy used to say that you can't really see a painting in a museum, where you <i>expect</i> to see beautiful paintings, that the only way to truly see a beautiful painting would be to stumble across it in an attic or something. To stumble across something beautiful in real time, this is one of the best parts about watching sports. Witnessing the kind of play that makes us shout involuntary noises: that's what I mean by delight, Ricky. That's why I've started watching Barcelona play the Beautiful Game whenever I can, for the chance to see the little men Messi and Iniesta create a work of art in real time, and that's why I try to watch the young man Rondo and the old man Nash whenever I can, and that's why I've really been wanting to see the T-Wolves play.<br />
<br />
So on Saturday night, the night of American Football playoffs, the night of the Saints, the night of Tebow, you and the T-Wolves came to Atlanta. I live an hour from there and I thought about making a pilgrimage, but tickets in the nosebleeds were seventy bucks for a pair, and I didn't want to help pay Joe Johnson's ridiculous salary, and plus I wanted to watch Tebow. But at home I could watch football and also watch you play a whole game for the first time. The Hawks game was your second career start, following your first start the day before in New Orleans, where you had 12/9/6. I was pumped. And you didn't disappoint.<br />
<br />
By the end of the first quarter I had shouted "Ohhhhh!" twice, once for a behind-the-back and another for a lob from near half court, both of them completely out of nowhere. I also watched with Dominique and the other Hawks announcer as they replayed another pass twice, to try to figure out how you'd done it, how you got the pass between two defenders in the lane. I only flipped back to the Saints game when you were out--you got in foul trouble in the second--or when it was a commercial. And when you fell into the stands under the basket and left the game limping, I held my breath like it was my own child who'd come out of the game. But you came back, and Dominique resumed comparing you to Pistol Pete and said, "Rubio's tricky with the ball, I'll tell you what..." You had 7 and 7 by halftime, but more: a 7 and 7 full of surprises. The delight I felt in that first half was on par with the first time I read Charles Portis, or the first time I heard Jay-Z's "Thirty Something," or the first and only time I ate at a restaurant called Uchi.<br />
<br />
You ended up with 18 points (a career high, at least for another week or so), 12 assists, and 5 steals. While Brady was throwing fifteen touchdown passes and the nation was continuing their impassioned philosophical debate about a 24 year-old football player, your team built an 18 point lead and then, like the young group you are, squandered it completely and went down by three in the last minute. You hit a three with 26 seconds left to tie it back up--you can shoot, too! more involuntary ohhhhs!--but then the Hawks hit a couple free throws and Love missed a shot at the buzzer and it was another loss for the T-Wolves, and suddenly I found myself <i>feeling dejected about a T-Wolves loss</i> (though not as dejected as I felt the next day when the Texans lost). But by then I'd already started trying to figure out how I can "share" my brother's NBA League Pass Broadband to watch you play more often. The best, most creative athletes make meaningless games as exciting as any playoff game, as long as they have the ball in their hands (or their feet), and that's what you did in ATL. You're one of the youngest guys on the youngest team in the NBA; both you and the team are going to continue to have many struggles, but you're something special, Ricky. As a Rockets fan, I probably wouldn't trade our own potentially special and extremely underrated point guard for you right now, but I'm thrilled about watching you play basketball for many years to come, watching you get even better. Take care of your gifts, because you're an artist, my friend. This compressed season will continue to feature many dirty, ugly quarters, but not when you're playing. Last night I found myself saying to my wife, "Damn, I gotta get a Rubio jersey." I haven't bought an NBA jersey in more than sixteen years, but I was serious. God bless those who create delight.<br />
<br />
Thanks,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. The only thing that's disappointing about you so far is your size. One element about the Barca soccer team that I love is that its two best players, two of the absolute best in the whole world, are tiny, unremarkably built, maybe even <i>dorky</i>-looking men. You probably already know this, but Messi had to take<i> </i>human growth hormone to reach 5'6". That's crazy, for multiple reasons. And the 5'7" Iniesta, according to Simon Kuper's great <i>Soccer Men</i>, once got mistaken for a waiter by a woman at a restaurant in Barcelona, who asked him to get her food--and he just went and got it. Star athletes in America never get mistaken for waiters, Ricky. Even the athletes at middling American colleges look distinctively like athletes in their specific sports. And at 6'4"/180, you won't be mistaken for a waiter either, which is too bad. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-88213341124517102332012-01-08T15:24:00.000-05:002012-04-16T08:21:08.930-04:00No Joke, No OchocincoDear Mr. World Peace,<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>less</i> seriously. We snickered when the <i>Times</i> 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.<br />
<br />
Or at least that's what I thought--until I watched the Rockets/Lakers game last Tuesday and had an epiphany.<br />
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During the game you bumped our sharpshooting albino small forward Chase Buddinger a little too hard for his liking, and he tried to start a scuffle with you. But you only walked away, past him and the other players who'd drifted towards the scuffle, with a wide-eyed amused look. As the Rockets' announcer said, "Chase wasn't too happy with World Peace," I realized something about your new name: it works. If you, Metta World Peace, would've engaged in the scuffle with Buddinger and pushed him, I would've actually been <i>surprised</i>. But if your name was still Ron Artest, I wouldn't have been surprised at all. I would've thought, "Well, people change, but they can't ever change completely." (I once heard a priest repeat this depressing line his mother used to tell him: "People rarely change...and never for the better.") I realized that because your name is Metta World Peace now, you're <i>required</i> to walk away from all scuffles. The irony and hypocrisy of a man getting into a fight while wearing a jersey that says World Peace would just be too much. Both you and the idea of world peace would become a cynical joke. And I realized something else: <i>you know this</i>. Your new name is no joke, no Ochocinco. I see now that your new name is a sincere attempt to complete your redemption. <br />
<br />
America doesn't so much forgive as it forgets, Metta. We have a short cultural memory, either out of mercy or--more likely--out of necessity. How else could we continue to cheer? So after the statute of limitations is over, we forget that a certain NBA star was accused of rape, or that a certain NFL star was accused of rape <i>twice</i>. Or a different NFL star's involvement in dog fights. Or the marital transgressions of a certain golfer. We forget that a certain president enjoyed oral sex with an intern in the Oval Office. And we've already started to revise our opinion of the president who came after him, forgetting many of the things we despised about him, now that time has passed. We'll forget the ways the current president has disappointed us too, maybe even before next November. This is just how it works. To go back to sports: that reigning National League MVP who just tested positive for steroids? If he bides his time, in a few years this too shall pass. But with you it's different, Metta. Having one's transgressions forgotten is not the same as redemption. Redemption is much, much better. And you've redeemed yourself.<br />
<br />
Listen to this: When my brother was in middle school, he was uncommunicative around adults. My dad would introduce him to someone, my brother would hardly even muster a hello, the person would leave, and then my dad would get irritated and rip my brother for having no personality. My dad would actually say, "You have no personality." This happened many times. So at the end of my brother's eighth grade year we went out to eat Mexican food to celebrate the last day of school and the same thing happened--my dad introduced him to someone, he hardly said a word, and my dad said he had no personality. Except this time my brother said, "No personality? Oh yeah?" And then he pulled a crumpled certificate out of his pocket, slammed it on the table, and said, "MR. PERSONALITY." The certificate was an award he'd won that day at school, an award literally called Mr. Personality. True story. He won an award for the very thing he'd been criticized for for years. That's redemption, Metta.<br />
<br />
And so it is with you. The guy who in 2004 received the longest suspension for an in-game incident in NBA history was in 2011 the winner of the league's J. Walter Kennedy Citizenship Award. That's real redemption. The guy with major anger issues is now the league's biggest advocate for mental health. Real redemption. And the guy whose name was synonymous with uncontrolled aggression is now named World Peace. That, my friend, is real redemption.<br />
<br />
You've transformed yourself into a mix of Gandhi and Andy Kaufman, except a Gandhi who says crazy shit and an Andy Kaufman who never makes the audience feel like the joke is on us. We love you when you get pranked by Jimmy Kimmel and refuse to get angry as they bring in more and more threatening-looking animals to film a fake commercial with you. We love you when a reporter asks you about what name your teammates call you now and you answer by going into a monologue about God's foresight regarding teeth: "Not only did He build the world in seven days and seven nights, he also said, 'Okay, let them lose their teeth early, rather than late.'" We love when we read that Mike Brown asked you to be the leader of the Lakers' second unit and that your response was simply, "Obama!" We love you, Metta. You're an object lesson in the possibility of real change. Though this young and compressed season hasn't been too kind to you so far, we salute you. You're eminently worthy of your strange and peaceful new name. The joke is not on you, nor is it on us. It's on nobody. That's nice.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Burke<br />
<br />
P.S. Did you notice that around New Year's Eve, Kanye made a reference to you on Twitter? "My New Year's DJ name is gone be Yeezy World Peace!" he said. "If you book me you have to put Yeezy World Peace on the E-vite or I ain't spinning!" Like you, Kanye does whatever strange thing he feels like doing, and like you he is frequently, intentionally hilarious ("Ima need a stealth bomber and 2 bottled waters #YEEZYWORLDPEACE'S RIDER"). And like Ron Artest, Kanye's been in need of redemption. (Although what has he really done, anyway? Accuse a president of hating black people? Humiliate a young singer? Okay, but still.) Looking at Kanye's recent Twitter messages--which include his plans to create a summer school with Spike Jonze, among other things--I'm optimistic that, with you as his inspiration, Yeezy World Peace will also soon complete his own redemption.<br />
<br />
P.P.S. Please don't get into a fight any time soon and ruin the entire premise of this letter.<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8362029045493672557.post-7266494963647318302012-01-01T14:07:00.003-05:002012-01-24T11:41:12.318-05:00Momma, There Goes That ManDear Coach Jackson,<br />
<br />
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 <i>Friday Night Lights</i>. 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 <i>Cop Out</i> or that movie with Samuel L. and the dad from <i>American Pie</i>, which didn't even seem like a real movie, or even the combo in <i>The Other Guys</i>. (And I'm sure you're like me, Mark, and you pretended to like <i>The Other Guys</i> 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 <i>grown man</i>." 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 <i>did</i> 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.<br />
<br />
With that in mind, let me suggest a few things.<br />
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I coached a freshman high school team for one season, so I have a little more coaching experience than you. Whenever a team struggles, coaches fall into one of three categories: those who reflexively blame themselves, those who reflexively blame their players (codeword: "execution"), and those who pretend to do the former while really doing the latter ("I'm the head coach, so I have to figure out a way to get these guys to start making easy shots"). Mark, be the guy who always takes the blame in public. Don't be like Mike D'Antoni, to give just one example, who after the Knicks game Thursday said, "The Lakers are good and we're awful. We didn't play well. We didn't make shots." And the day before, when they lost to you guys, said: "The whole game our offense was awful. We weren't in sync, we didn't make shots, we turned the ball over and we gave them layups. Whatever kind of mistakes you can make, we made. It was awful." Awful is not a good word to use in reference to your players. These dudes are sensitive. And conversely, when things are going well, give them all the credit. I noticed that after your first win as a coach, where Stephen Curry scored 21 and had 10 assists and held Derrick Rose to 13 points, you said, "He was in attack mode against arguably the best point guard and the MVP of the league. He did a great job of being an extension of me on the floor." I know point guards are supposed to be extensions of their coaches, but that sounds an awful lot like you're trying to take some of the credit for his performance, like Steph Curry is your remote-controlled car or something. You're better than that, Mark.<br />
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My other piece of advice is this: pay no mind to the present. In sports and politics we give way too much credence to the present and forget that the present almost always becomes obsolete after it becomes the past. Really. Ask the columnists who complained about how bad the Cardinals were when they were ten games back at the beginning of September. Ask former Republican frontrunner and author of <i>This is Herman Cain! My Journey to the White House</i>, Herman Cain. As I write this, you're 2-2 as a coach: that means very little. You beat the Bulls: that means very little. The T-Wolves haven't yet won a game: means very little. (They're pretty good.) The Lakers lost their first two and the Celtics and Mavs both lost their first three: I'm telling you, this all means very little. Please remember this when you guys go on an inevitable losing streak. And when that time does come, I give you permission to quote this paragraph to your players.<br />
<br />
There's one thing that I have no advice about: your other great young guard, Monta Ellis. What does a coach do when one of his best players loses his beloved grandmother on Christmas Day and then gets accused of sexual harassment by a former team employee that same week? This is something that I never had to deal with as a freshman coach, something even Coach Taylor never had to deal with on NBC/DirectTV. You can't just make a guy run laps for texting a female employee pictures of his penis. This is serious, real serious. (Again, ask Herman Cain.) And then when we add the grief element: it's tricky. I don't think we'll ever realize how many strange and difficult dynamics you NBA coaches have to deal with behind the locker room doors, but the Monta Ellis situation gives us an idea.<br />
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Your Warriors are one of the teams whose box scores I find myself checking for the first time in many seasons, after having ignored them for years (see also: the aforementioned T-Wolves and Knicks, the Grizzlies, the Pacers, and the Clippers, of course). But all the blowouts this week and all the back-to-backs are worrying me. I'm nervous that this season might end up like a great family-style Chinese or Indian meal with like twelve or fourteen amazing dishes, but then you and your friends eat everything way too fast because the restaurant gave you only a limited amount of time to eat and thus a great meal is ruined. And you all end up struggling in your respective bathrooms the next morning, wishing you'd have had time to enjoy the meal properly. I hope this doesn't happen to your team, Coach, and I hope it doesn't happen to those of us who consider ourselves NBA fans.<br />
<br />
Happy New Year,<br />
<br />
Burke Nixon<br />
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<br /></div>Burke Nixonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03559172850706565822noreply@blogger.com